Delays

Time is of the essence. Or it was.
Now I can spend a liberal largesse
Of it. I used to hear the constant buzz
Of possibilities in great excess
Passing away unrealized, but now
I twiddle hours away unwillingly.
I would be active, but instead must bow
To stern necessity, which calls on me
To waste myself. I hate the tiny crawl
Of minutes that were once there to be used
But now are useless, empty, pointless all
As if instead of time, now I'm abused
And bored beyond belief. I notice I'm
The subject, not the sovereign, of my time.