Wasted Years
I've heard there are two paths you can go by,
I've read I ought to take the path less traveled;
I've made my own path despite,
Ever having given either path a gamble.
Lost traversing aimlessly through,
The lush spring prairies full of life;
I seem to unknowingly choose,
Desolate vast tundras of ice.
A colorless empty wasteland,
Slows down my once wondrous journey;
Turning my hue-less eyes face down,
Numbing the thoughts that concern me.
Selfishly I ponder on,
Giving myself a gander;
My lucid daydreams carry-on,
Struggling to turn my criticism to banter.
With no longing for a sunrise,
No interest in howling at the moon;
Only now in sunset skies,
I can feed my empty tomb.
I have known that for survival,
Trapped within this frigid glacial world;
Atonement flourished revival,
Sent within a single warm word.
Precipitous licking fire,
It's flares echo from up above;
Precipitates the muck and mire,
To precipitation of love.
Still off in the foggy distance,
I can faintly hear the tone;
Beckoning to my existence,
For my soul for whom the bell tolls.
My tortured weary body aches,
While my minds bright embers aglow;
The songbirds of sorrow awaits,
Reaping dark empty seeds I sow.
Devaluating precious time,
And prioritizing my pain;
Has left self-loathing in my prime,
With a pessimistic disdain.
Perhaps time isn't as real,
As understands our mind's perception;
It must just be the moments we feel,
More like a figment for recollection.
As the white sands of time flow through the glass,
I helplessly watch their numbers diminish;
With every grain another lapse,
With every moment that goes till it's finished.
Copyright © Mike Jones | Year Posted 2016
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