Time passes differently here,
Perhaps it is the collective will,
Of those who pass through,
Their stress, or calm, obsession with time ~
Changing gates, announcements spoken through broken speakers,
Words that echo against cold and naked walls, delays and departures…
Perhaps it is to be expected,
That hours count differently in he minds of those who travel.
Restless and vigilant,
Measured worry and expensive airport food:
Sleep that never truly comes,
Mere flirtations between rest and the weary,
Never a full hour.
If there is such a thing,
As a compass or an hourglass,
It would say:
Seven hours,
you’ve waited seven hours today.


About Fredrik Kayser

Everything is connected.
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