Time On His Hands
Time.
Never enough of it.
Unless you're me.
And reasons to grow,
I no longer see.
Backwards, forwards,
It's all the same to me
Neither exists
I ponder a reason to be
Ideas, memories, hopes,
the tide is out
The beach is dry
My last remaining question-
Why??
Copyright © Tom Bell | Year Posted 2007
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment