I chase that wily thief: Time
My only weapon: a butterfly net
He slips through again
My nerves screech with desire
I have a small petition, if he'll only stop to listen
Four more for the day
Four more for the night
Just eight more hours to stretch each day
An infinite gift from such a small change
At nightfall, head nodding as I slump toward slumber,
I feel that dull indigestion of halted progression.
Eight more, please, to help me rule what is mine.