Sad Labels:
ambivalence
,
clarity
,
frailties
,
introspect
,
sad poems
,
sad poetry
 |
| created by alcoholicpoet.com |
time opens its purse. only to realize there is nothing left.
the end is quiet. as the end often is. a preponderance of scavengers.
we wear the hours like broken staircases. every step subsumed by the spoiling arithmetic
the hollow panic of paper thieves. as the world resolves their delusions.
we whisper in time's ear. all the lies that we want it to believe.
skin plays hopscotch on the remains of our choices. lingering games divide their fractions.
we are the ambivalent authors of voices without sound.
we are the reluctant assassins in love's sharpest corners.
the machine idles against the treble of each breath.
while we languish in the paradox of a future long since spent.
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