Waiting for no-one it surges on
No pause for thought,
Or batting an eyelid,
Never generous. Almost gone.

The evidence is left upon your face
Though the eyes deny,
Chances not taken,
Regrets mount. We cry.

It doesn't cease but endures
It's reach is long,
Steadfast through the seasons,
Ticking on. Ticking on...

A year ceased to the known,
crystal to each other
selves of their own,
clear as day,
but the day's long agone.
Her voice still etched in his ears,
and as it appears,
it sure won't be gone for years.
Years to come, years to go,
will there be another to the known?
each day passes in this question's wake,
another day of talking and giggling
over something his mama baked?
will there be yet another night
skinny dipping down the lake?

After Ten Thousand Years, what will remain; after the seas and sands have reclaimed L.A.?

When the continents don't look the same; shuffled around like dominoes, as God prepares to play another game.

Will the stars our audience stay, though we prioritise these silent spectators above our planetary play?

Then there shall come a day, when no taught tongue these words can say; lest as maxims to complement aristocratic displays. When this poem's rhythm and reason, no researcher can attain.

The Gate Wall has been long erode, rendered flat and smooth; a mat laid out upon the floor. Our precious salads' descendants, both physique and favour now wholly unknown; after Ten Thousand Years Nature's nurture will be shown.

After Ten Thousand Years, humanity will remain, and with their mortal expressions; the savagery of ten eons, nay eternity, shall be tamed.

False claims and exploding stars.
A thousand years late from where we are.
I've been searching for the center of my universe too,
And
As I get closer,
I gravitate towards you.