slowness

Slowness

 

To appease emptiness,

the fingertip standing hesitatingly.

But

the tune cooled off

is moving nothing

but just wandering around.

The black pupil of the eye

makes the dim fog appear,

as there is no place to focus on.

Self-springing up of deception and trickery

is falling down weakly,

as if the efficacy of medicine uses up.

In the swinging sob,

the time goes to creep squashy.

And the patience in the slowness

tries to pile up

whether the lateness of the time

or the lateness of mine not,

as instructing me that this moment is not my time.