The Hourglass Illusion
Time is of the essence, relentless and swift,
yet I pretend my hourglass is full, a deceptive gift.
Minutes, hours, days—weeks blur into years, tic-tock, missing games, school plays, and cheers. Even birthdays slip away,
like sand through cracks, Who am I to deprive them of a mother’s tracks?
“You’re selfish,” the inner voice accuses, Or perhaps I lack remorse.
Wet pillows greet me at dawn’s cruel light, demons as bedfellows, relentless in their
fight. Drained and conquered, I admit defeat, Their whispers echo, relentless and discreet.