When time is fullest I find life most dull:
No wiggle room, no space left to express
A personal side to make new happiness;
No time to think, consider, ponder, mull
My constant pulling of this single scull
Whose pace will never alter more or less
No matter what the strain, the shear, the stress
I put by rowing on its sliding hull,
And if I cannot stop, then why go on?
Why rush if time will bring me relief?
It feels as if full time is just a con
Designed to trick me into the belief
That I am doing something - but to do
Has little purpose without stopping too.
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