Late
Damn I'm late. Time moves slow but, sure as the devils footsteps. Ever so lightly
as sin and time passes by. Damn I'm late. Time is creeping up on you like the
sure death of cut wrists, and the running out of air in this box shape life. Damn
I'm running late, and there is nothing I can do about it, like the ones doomed and
placed aside for the Pitts of hell. So why rush, why run, why wish, or hope. I'm
already late. So I guess sorry would be my reasoning for lateness, and time
would be my reason for my sorries.
Copyright © Luke Michel | Year Posted 2007
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