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?