How much further can a poet,
Stress upon the swiftness of time?
It fools me to see it as a graceful entity,
That meanders and dances through endless seas.
But neither do I know of its intents
Nor its wicked countenance.
Like a fool i was,
Mistaking Time as a friend....
Alas it was Time itself,
That silently puts a finger on my lips,
And fades away,
As my heart hardens,
Like the frozen world He has banished me to,
I lay tainted and felt such melancholy,
That made one considers, 'Is this an act of God? Or merely Lucifers?'
As others walk past me,
My visions of them were faceless beings
But faintly, I vaguely saw a smirk on one of their faces,
Thus i took it as a state of content...
Alas, could i say that,
'This world is a masquerade?'
But then came along such a sound,
I realized that it was audible...only to me...
Such grace was it, that my hands,
Moving slower than the clocks,
Reached out for this tainted heart,
And felt the warmth caress by this sound...
But alas i realize that,
I could never embrace such beauty.
For I am flawed and only armed,
Not by the strength of many men,
But words...and only words,
Alas that is such the fate of this poet.
