fractions of time
fleeting by.
Yet creating in their wake
the days and nights.
In which we stand.
Giving
and yet sometimes
Taken
for granted.
Yet every fraction in time.
Should be taken as being precious.

Lost voice
unable to be heard.
Like
That of a missing page of a book.
No longer able to be read.
And yet
this voice.
Given time and rest will return..
Yet in losing something.
It may give time for something else to be found.

Owning that of who I am.
Not
flawless in any way.
Yet accepting the flaws.
That are apart of me.
And
yet they are not all of who I am.
And in knowing and accepting yourself.
For who you are.
Let's no one fault you.

Cast out into the unknown.
Or just another day or night.
Living
with time being something one can not save.
As it comes and goes.
With the sun by day moon by night.
Yet
it's how we spend our time.
That's
what counts the most.

Lost
in an entanglement of your words and mine.
Looking
not for a way out.
When
something's so right even time can be lost.
Found
in simple things sometimes are where answers are hiding.
Given that we know where to look.

Living through the works we write.
As the ink carries on even after we have gone.
Leaving behind a look through the window.
Off what used to be the person, behind the veal of words.
Not afraid to show vulnerability.
Knowing there is strength in flaws.
An what better way to say.
What might not have been said at all?
Unless it was written in your own words.