Tick tock,
Tick tock,
Trickster time,
Was running out.
Biased was he,
Towards his mistress work,
He would not part fast.
Cold he was,
To everybody else,
Except for learn,
Their only son.
Possessive he was,
Towards his son,
And his lady love,
That he would not,
Give another chance,
To develop a relation,
More than once.
Generous he acts,
In front of his love,
But he runs away,
From beggars of time.
YOU ARE READING
Pouring Out
Poetry"If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches; for the Creator, there is no poverty." - Rainer Maria Milke Poetry is present everywhere in our day to day life. Everything around...
