this thought costs

Days are really piled minutes, mortared by seconds,
just like how houses are really brick and concrete.
The one who drew the diagramed design,
sharpcornered, straight, ruled lined,
knew the foundation like the body knows feet.
Aching, constantly, reminding, this thought costs.
Time, money, enough weight piled, fixed, built right,
the world, still light enough to twirl, and float,
a demanding black ocean, earth a spinning boat,
caught up in its current.
Days break down into minutes.
Seconds. Like dollars into cents.
It matters how each one is spent.

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