Time wrings the beauty out of everything -
the morning now just shattered shards of light,
the depth of darkness sucked off from the night,
the moon crushed, forlorn, like a crumpled mothwing.
The road’s shell shocked, the world’s a drunken camp,
the heart of workdays stifling, oppressive,
the weekends frazzled with no rest to give,
the days hamster wheels, the sun a rubber stamp.
Just one face in the crowd means breathe and dream;
just one glance, one word can forge a connect.
Just one face missing and decades are wrecked
and years become an angsty high-pitched scream.
We either speak too soon or speak too late;
the chance knocks once and does not know to wait.