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Jul 2017
The currents of time begin to coil,
Pulling me within its currents.
The days count down -
Ten days, nine days, eight
The thought in which I contemplate
In how many instances have I made her wait?
Is it not linear, this sense of becoming?
Am I not being but once per second
Do I exist past where my physicality
Time is running out.
The sifting sands of the hourglass reduce
From the vast expanse of the hour hand
To but grains and pebbles of
A dimension I cannot mend,
One of which I can only spend,
With her, I wanted to
Of all the things with which
I imagine I'd be able to share with her
Time is but the only thing that
It was meant to be wasted away with her.
Aidan A
Written by
Aidan A  24/M/Malaysia
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