Time, it ticks slow
As the sun rises and sets
I hear the call of the crow
Voicing all my regrets
I plant my seeds in heaps
So my future may grow
But the old man reaps
Only what we can sew.
His scythe is sharp, unforgiving
There is no going back
No matter how hard I am wishing
I can only move on, though the future is black
Blindly I stumble
Shaping the future while stuck in the past
Watching my feats crumble
I knew they could never last
The old man works his fields
Never resting, ever at work
Time never yields
And I cannot see through its murk
YOU ARE READING
Randoms
PoetryA collection of poems and short stories that don't belong anywhere else. These are my random ideas and feelings, all thrown together.
