I can not seem to wait for old age.
Always dreaming of what will become,
Yet only ever feeling it with small hope
And a listless desire to find truth.
I am like the rest.
Torn between what will be and what is now.
Each day passes, slowly whittling our skin
To withstand what will soon become the end.
How can something beyond us all be widely criticized
And its journey blatantly ignored?
I suppose what we can’t understand,
We leave alone to drown in the gutters of our minds eye.
But for now I see and I will be.
I shall stay in the comforting arms of sorrow.
But soon I will accept what is now
And no longer wait for that of age.
Because time does not tell me who I am
For I already know.
No comments:
Post a Comment