The weird thing about time,
Is that it doesn't remember,
No matter what, the calendar moves on.
Whether I stay or sleep,
Alive or past,
The clock will keep on ticking...
~
Some days I wake,
Without the blood in my veins freezing,
Without my shoes encasing mere dead weights.
Other days my eyes pry open,
My heart barely beating,
And every breath from yesterday is spent.
But they are all just days,
Made up of minutes that turn to years,
Slipping slowly into a wasted eternity.
~
So after my body wastes away,
When the blood drips from my veins,
When every breath is nearly gone...
Though on this earth I may not stand,
The ghost of my memory will walk this lonely path,
As the clock keeps on ticking.
A/N: I know it's been a little while since my last update, but quality is more important than quantity, right? Well, if you could classify this as 'quality'.
I put a lot of thought into this particular poem, lots of little hidden meanings for you guys to discover :). Let me know what you think down in the comments, and if you liked this chapter, don't forget to vote and/or share with a friend. Writing is best when shared. Thanks for reading, as usual. Bye!
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