no one wants to visit
the harsh reality
that the days
are slipping away
and there might not be
enough time
to make time for time.
it is always tomorrow
or the next day,
feeding the minutes away
for just one more moment,
another chance to get it down,
get it done.
but it all falls apart
and what was most important
gets pushed aside
for what needs to happen now.
an endless,
circular motion,
coming back
upon itself.
crazy, bark-eyed men shuffling along
to the music that plays in their own
rattling heads, looking for a few more
minutes to drum up a symphony, but
the orchestra never arrives.
no one wants to visit the harsh reality
that you truly die alone, and all the
friends in the world can't bring you
down that winding road.
so we wait,
shaking off the sand,
and it gathers
@ our feet
only to restrict our movements
more and more.
but nobody listens,
and the flowers
get cast aside
for bigger,
better
guns.
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