A single tick, a lonely tock, The savage known as time, Crawls upon us slowly, With the silence of a mime. The fire from the crucible, Consuming all in sight, And drags us all to our end, Into our blessed night. But time has lost it's grasp, Upon the damned on Earth, Like the Flying Dutchman, Never reaching Berth. A few long dead, yet going on, Relishing, and dreading, The things that cannot touch them, On the lonely path they're treading. The prefume of the stench of death, It lingers, clings, and stains, And follows from those that fall, To ease his hunger pains. Lost in direction, existing, Drenched with taken life, Amassing, accomplishing nothing, Bestowing only strife.
Reason for writing:
Believe it or not this was a dream I had.
Birth sign: Aquarius
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