When did it become hard to write of beauty?
This life's wonderment has been annulled from me,
As if a punishment for some crime.
Now each day slips from the last, melting into a sea of foggy memory.
I only blinked to find the words have all disappeared.
Replaced by a much darker absence of beauty.
Silence is in abundance here, yet no tranquillity.
All that spills out are the cries and pain.
Has time sped up? Or am I just phasing out of it?
Has time slowed down? Or am I just slipping into it?
Where did the time we spent go? Was it wasted time?
Where do we keep our memories? Are they in that time?
Amusing it can be how time's pace differs depending on whats going on.