Years march on to a constant rhythm,
Months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds,
The present forever fading away,
Our world faces this together,
And yet we never seem to have time.
Friends and family who lost contact,
Not through scorn or broken ties,
Much too busy and tired with nothing,
It's a sin borne on both sides,
And we age with every tick every tock.
Vivid photos with memories dulling,
Faces lose names and actions lose places,
Drained ability to draw frown or smile,
Wooden train once so clear,
Now gathers dust and turns to dust without tear.
YOU ARE READING
Soft Curses of Angels - Volume 1 - A Fistful of Dust
PoésieThe earliest part of my chronological anthology of bad poetry. Estimated age at time of writing 12-16. I both thank and apologise to any soul who takes the time to read these.
