A poem. (Blame McClure)

[phillipmorephil]

How grand it would be,
         I think,
to stop.

Not time, 
      of course,
             for time must go on,
but to stop one's
                                       self.
Oh,
    how  
           grand 
   it would be.

To stop in a busy hallway.
Watch people
     rush,
              hurry,
                       hustle

off to their appointments.
       To their scheduled events.
To where they need to be.

Stop.
       And be an 
                       anchor
                in a fast moving 
                    sea
             of people.

Stop.
      And be a 
                constant
                       in an eternally
                troubled 
          setting.

Stop.
       Watch time as it 
          trudges on,
              endless,
                 eternal,
                    infinite.

Stop.
      Watch as the 
                clocks turn,
            dizzily,
                 lazily,
                     spinning into
                  innocent
             Armageddon.

Watch as time
 speeds,
always,
    into the future.
     As it goes and goes,
          further and further
      into the
unknown.

Watch.

Pay attention.

Look closely.