The presence of time
The ticking clock falls from the ceiling,
every second turns into colored dust.
Time creeps up the walls,
it's in my pocket, but it always escapes.
Every breath spills into the air,
and the flow becomes the soup of dreams.
Presence is just a point in the sea
where the ship of time never comes.
Ref:
Seconds dance, crawl in silence,
minutes are torn to shreds.
Light is liquid, falling and disappearing,
at this moment I'm just a speck in the class.
21 окт 2024
