Tick. Tock.

August 21, 2010
The clock carries the crafy cantering of time.
Do dreams feel like dying destiny?
Should they seep silently into our surrender,
To see our selfish serenities?

They try to hard to be taken as nothing.
Not one needless noise will near my throat.
For time flies too frequently to be free.

In it's busy schedule.
That's where you'll find me.

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