I feel the sands of time trickling.
Tick.
Trickling through the tight space I have tried to hold oh so tightly onto.
Tock.
Ghastly white knuckles, crescent moon shaped indents, blood red palms.
Tick.
Time ticks on, trickling down into the seemingly timeless void we all seem to fear.
The end.
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Beautiful Disaster.
PoetryA life in a garden sure is pretty the roses with more than one way to kill and lilies that remind you of the past. A garden is gorgeous as long as it's cared for. if your mind and body were a garden, would it a magnificent garden or a secret space f...
