We turn pages like the hands of a clock,
merely waiting for the pain to stop.

The hurt that is everlasting,
and full of creeping doubt.

Where lacking of beliefs is in an action so dire,
blood is often required.

The causeways of life's sour disposition,
housed in simmering veins.

These lines of a most terrible descent,
locked in a loving embrace of time.

The countless seconds of infinite measures,
left in a crumbling heart, forever.

New beginnings can come from broken things,
if we only tend to the marionette stings of our heart.