Counting Up

I live in moments,
each second is a millenium in which I can define the world and all that is in it
and still forget it in the next eternal moment.
With each tick the world changes
and is reverted upon the tock,
new meanings new hopes,
 but still the same dream,
 the same illusion of control,
like we live on the face of the clock,
at least you do.
I don't.
Because the only timepiece I  keep is the measure of heart murmurs,
but my heart does not murmur,
it shouts
speaks out
 has mind of its own
and though it can only give voice about once a tick
that seems to do the trick
because by the time tock comes
I have loaded my guns.
You live like target acquired,
I live like a poet inspired
and don't you dare get tired
because every second lost upon yawn
is day done until the next brink of dawn
and like a child sprawled on the lawn
who you claim does not realize what he's losing
you've already lost too much.
You say youth is wasted on the young
but moments are all too often wasted on grown up humdrum,
our years are numbered in days
which are constructed of hours
which are made by minutes
which are counted in seconds.
So everything comes down to this next second
which is really the next minute
which rolls into the next hour
which falls into a day
which concludes this year.
Now as you walk into the daily drivel you call maturity
I want you to see,
we youths know our days are numbered,
we are simply unencumbered
by the weight of wasted moments
because we did our best to spend them wisely,
not upon completing the next task
or rushing to get to class but by sprawling on the lawn
watching the coming of the new dawn,
 in awe of moments which last eternities.