The itching of the clock...Awaiting the scratch of the scab filled moments in time.
The seconds and minutes that morph into hours...The days dried out in the Sun of man.
What awaits us as we play our lives emptied of instrumental gain? ...We are raisins in the Sun scorched and abraizened by what they've-pain.
Lessons of the heart, are not yet-ripe...Until our soul, hath grown in might.
Our pain of soul, all dressed up, a-windowed...Last one left, umarried-forgotten widow.
Consumed of heart and unlasted host of happy...Alas my soul, forlorn and bored and crappy.
Michael Gale
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-wasted-life-that-inched-by-gone/
