Mixmatch

My days are long and slow to end
My hours trot along at pace;
The mismatch I can't comprehend
Between the plodding and the race.
Why does each hour wish to be
So quickly terminated? Why
Does every day so tediously
Remit itself to the night sky?
How can it be that in a day
The hours are a constant tide
And yet the pace at which they stray
Is so unequal from inside?
I fear the hours will outstrip
The days, and time itself will trip.