Every log on the fire marks a new hour.
Each Step I take seems somehow louder than the last.
With each consecutive movement, I grow less aware, and more awake
Time for me, is no longer measured in hours, nor days.
It is measured only in logs.
And you, with your 24 hour time-clock,
Do not understand the pain of measuring in logs.
Logs, perhaps, are not as structured as an hour,
But for me, are far more accurate.
I measure also, in good.
Good night, and good morning.
I wonder if you know that I feed on them.
I inhale your every good night
Your every good morning.
I wonder if you know, that you are the only reason I’ve stopped.
My logs are changing into hours.
The cracks of the wood transforming into ticking.
All for you.
I am no longer a martyr of time.