The Quiet Pulse of Deadlines

Oh. Deadlines sit like quiet clocks. Hands unseen, but always walk.

They don't shout. They softly breathe, right behind you, close beneath. A promise hiding

teeth so sharp, tapping glass inside your heart, humming songs while you're asleep,

leaning close with coffee's heat. Tomorrow's just a fleeting door that opens once

and closes more. Deadlines sharpen every day, turning fog to light the way.

Fear to motion, steps and signs, living in the beat of deadlines.

We bargained hoping time would wait, saying tomorrow's not too late. But time enjoys

a little joke and the clock keeps spinnin' spoke by spoke. At the moment