Sand like time,
Slipping through fingers,
Concrete emotions,
Wasting away.
The future belongs to desolate dreamers,
As demons mock relentless,
Secure in their ignorance.
Solitary being,
Born of anger,
Plagued by sin,
Now regretting it all,
Anticipating the end
While travelling ever forward.
Waste not what you’re given
For that is your future,
Accept graciously,
Learn and move on.
Reah Roberts ©2009
Tales From Behind A Cushion 