They revolve to give us a boundary,
a limit we must not cross,
a confinement of our creativity.
How do you know if you have pasted that limit when the hands don't have a voice?
It is you're own judgement that clouds over the sound,
blocking it like a rainstorm over your happiness.
Why do we measure our actions from day to day when it doesn't benefit us in any way.
Who said that when darkness falls it's time to go into a doze of dullness.
The lights blinds you from your true thoughts,
the darkness accepts them.
Nothing can be more somber than sitting in a room alone when the sun's not shining,
giving faces to the dead and unborn,
names,
aspects and components that will never be real to anyone,
only the people who live in your head.
You designed their every feature so why can't you destroy them in a blink of an eye?
The limit isn't measured inside of you,
it ceases to exist.
You are an exception to the hands,
the rotations don't control you,
A maniac at it's finest some would say.
To me?
You are a diagnosis of who i used to be.