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a grain in a hour glass
stuck in a day dreams a tattered mess
to be straight the point, let digress,
about my fears, and troubling pulsing in my chest.
opening doors to only desecrate,
love is something we all try to calculate,
followed by the mathematicians probate.
without pain theirs a lack of appreciation,
there are no apology's only hopes for tribulation
for the flawed, the human hearts degradations.
i leave it all open to suggestion and assumption,
reality is a conundrum, the constant consumption
of the typical boring, and loves happy corruptions.
my body is a boat, my heart is the mast,
hoping to find you with every cast,
for all i am is a grain in a hour glass.
love just is.
