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I sit down and analyse, the tragedies of midnight starting at eleven fifty nine
every moment before the passing and every moment beyond;
they clog up my brain, leaving no room for rationality to walk
you and I, we exist in the slowest ever- seventy two heartbeats;
constantly wandering through this thin string of timepiece,
where on one end are all your days that have long gone
and on the other, the days you might never own
YOU ARE READING
Throes of Spring ✔️
Poetry[FEATURED] godhood is just like girlhood: a begging to be believed
