It's as quiet as a tide, that rolls in;
until it's up to your neck,
and you're out of breath.
It's a sacred as a blush on her cheek;
that's as red as a robins breast,
from a frost that crept in from the west.
It's as soft as the moon against the day sky;
so delicate in its hue,
so bygone in its view.
It aches, like a tree on an English moor;
that's been bent by the wind,
accustomed to its own suffering.
time waits for no man, no man.
and no gipsy card will help you understand.
It's as quiet as a tide, that rolls in.
Until it's up to your neck,
and you're out of breath. Drownin.
An ode to time, this is a song originally, it's missing its bridge but I didn't think it suited the poem format so I left it out. But, it goes;
and again, and again,
my friend, my friend.
I watch you talk yourself in & out,
to no end, no end.
As you sit there drinking,
with your friends, your friends.
Saying one day you'll leave this city,
but you're a loose end, loose end.