Time is of but
a precious regard
in which the heart
cannot help but be barred.
To slack
is a slap in the face,
but rather instead
of winning the race.
You fall farther,
faster than before.
Can you not see,
or your friends what is to be bore?
You cry out, falling to your knees,
and instead of love
you find yourself
a long, lost dove.
 |
|
|||||||||||||||
|
|
|||||||||||||||