Choking . . .
on the fumes of life
I give in
when too much strife
I though I had
made sure the plans
But they slipped through the fingers
Like sand in the hands

When devoured
our thoughts perverse
The truth be told
it goes from bad to worse
Porcelain smiles from a
crystalline face
The age has yellowed
The trust misplaced

You sit on the park bench
In the middle of night
No one bothers you
they can see
you are lost
in the midst of your plight

The thought of dawn
rising
far to the east
myths are on without
the peace
All my time is second hand ware
Ticking goes tocking
burdened by wear