I take my time,
wishing upon dead stars
and hope one is alive.
I pick wasted grains of
sand,
hoping to regain some time.
But they slip through cracks
of my feeble fingers and
submerge once more to
the pit of stormy oceans.
Where have the stars gone?
When has the ticking ceased?
I gather the fallen stars
and place them in my jar.
Trapped fireflies within
my crystal casket.
I pick daisies and dismember
petals seeking for an affirmation.
But buds run out and I am
frazzled.
If only certainty came with a
warranty,
perhaps then I could end
the utilization of interrogation.
I take my chances,
believing lies and hoping
one is right.
But perception is twisted
in sinewy limbs of contorted
sweetness,
and faith refuses any logical
examination.
So, I accept what may come
as an accusation and pray
for rehabilitation.