POEM: Given Too Much Spin [Sonnet]

The march of time is chopping at the world
like rugged heels that hack the rocky ground.
It feels as though the Earth, it has been hurled, 
and as it was, sped spinning round-and-round.

A nauseating ride, it is of late,
and only getting faster by the day.
I have no time for dates with my own fate,
and have given up praying for delays.

I'm hit by pounding waves of happenstance,
and random acts of near haphazardness.
I lose some hours adrift in blurry trance.
I'll schedule later dates to feel distress.

Yes, even though I know that date won't come,
I'll play the game as if I won't succumb.

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