The bullets,
the beatings,
the humiliation,
the disappointment.
Nothing cut as deep as time.
In its unyielding power,
it always marched on.
It took away the opportunity
To change what was
And the future was a mystery to all,
except the clocks
Why give a chance, spare some hope,
allow us to know if what is to come
might be worse than what threatened to kill us,
when you can keep running,
but always be present?
What a wicked game.
A contract without a single loophole
to crawl out of.
Time.
Tick-tock starts sounding like
sharpening knives.
You can get your copy of my first novel on Amazon: Little Rebellion
Poetry Books: Identity Crisis, Rehab
That’s powerful. Thanks for sharing.