Though our clock seeming not so precious, drums its beat with our feet on all 365 days
this remuneration of the tap and plea and a life led hand to mouth, begins these lights and every 24 hours
Our yearning, is not so different yet not quieted, seen so clearly in greedy deeds; flights like yellowed paper these hollow souls soar, o'er the esurient perverted 'round revenge with their empty thoughts and thirst of vanity -- all this repugnant crime
The mortal's berth of the former; twas light?
A forgotten part of the momentary past
we live, yeah we call it living in the absolute -- this dank dark
a malicious aphyxiationist, licit excuse!
Bloated with wealth, so many roll in their gilded flats, dissolving in tears for their lack of more -- more!
Has the day been made to have too much?
Amongst us, who of you truly have no doubt?
Though our clock seeming not so precious, drums its beat with our hearts on all 365 days, hope is our magic vow.
Written on delicate paper hung out to dry, and so fragile it takes flight! We share laughter like water I need such rapture, when I drink
I reconcile with the clock, and the evil deeds we do under it , and all the earth is then enough
is me enchanted to play
and your life, and its sway
your hand and my hand become
loosed, and eased go my strife.
Whatever you like
Created: Jun 10, 2010shannapie Document Media