These blurry faces haunt me,
As efforts of recollection are vain,
For each scattered memory,
Is a wound that inflicts pain.
A sandcastle built in a lifetime,
Crumbling into the ground,
Even the gentlest touch of this old hand,
Turns it back into sand.
What a heinous crime,
To make this childish soul frown,
No choice but to endure,
For there is no cure.
Living to forget every second that's lent,
is living a life simply waiting for an end.
Mar 19, 2024
Mar 19, 2024 at 1:32 PM UTC
These blurry faces haunt me,
As efforts of recollection are vain,
For each scattered memory,
Is a wound that inflicts pain.
A sandcastle built in a lifetime,
Crumbling into the ground,
Even the gentlest touch of this old hand,
Turns it back into sand.
What a heinous crime,
To make this childish soul frown,
No choice but to endure,
For there is no cure.
Living to forget every second that's lent,
is living a life simply waiting for an end.
Request permission to use this poem