DOORS OF THE URBAN OUTFITTERS

Have you ever been to paradise?

there’s a never-shut door.

It lingers open, a creak everytime the North Wind and his counterpart blow past it,

Newly blooming daisies wave a sign at their stems,

“Paradise not Heaven”.

Each moment leaves a mark.

But the habitants won’t budge at this inconsiquential occurrence.

There’s so much offered but there’s a parched plaque,

A tightly fixed frame called time.

Everyone has fitted themselves in there,

dwelling on the tick tocking of minute hands,

they chant “If not now, when”.

But even as they give standing ovations to their anthems,

their minds hang about something of then in anticipation of soon.

What’s to do for beings that won’t hear their own minds but the ticking of clock hands?

perhaps love