Colouring in the Lynes

Running can’t save me–A pointless Kicking of sand with my feet.

Time’s got a full schedule and doesn’t care for me.

She won’t stop to ease my weight, and so

Nothing’s taken by the hours passing.

Every day the penultimate pray.

Shuffling into churches.

Can you hear me?

Silent voices?



But an

Old Monk

Deemed that

Any good deed

can’t be destructed

By Fire, Wind, Rain or Time.

But all I’ve seen unshattered is Me.

And I lack the capacity to enlighten the world.

The task seems toilsome and the burden far too lofty.



This one has a case of severe suckage but I just wanted to make a fucking hourglass.

Now I am satiated–Hopefully–Sometimes the formatting here eludes me. 


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Filed under poetry, prayer, writing

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