Glasses of wine and and cups filled with sin,
mornings of thought following nights filled with gin
intentions they fall and actions they stay
till time blows on and they whither away
all things will pass, though many drag on
because time is so slow when the moment need be gone
the ticks never tick and the tocks seem to stop
but once they have passed
it no longer feels long
walking on air and swimming on ground
flying in water's like smiling in frown
our senses make sense, yet life never tends
to bend in a sense in which our senses can sense,
and since that intense.. confusion of words
nothing has come, except an authors absurd
thoughts in a train or trains filled with thoughts
maybe planes with ideas flying through skies labeled lost..
