By Faith Gonia
“Carpe diem,” Horace says,
But one thought of mine lingers:
How am I to seize a day,
When days keep slipping from my fingers?
To grab ahold and not let go
I’d truly like to do.
Yet, they move in constant flow,
While I move in pursuit.
An hour in a minute,
And a minute in far less—
I try my best to make the most,
Yet, I can’t help but stress.
I wish the short seven hours
Could feel like a millennium.
Sadly, the final bell sounds,
And I hear, “Perdere diem.”