Eight's a Waste

[elendil13002]

time is inane in its plots and twists
running from life to one's death kissed
turning and yearning for breath
the element which eludes us most
the element which holds our truths

minds are mixed up in a game
mixed up then fed up and relieved
held here for the wielder of time
something seeking to weigh us down
keeping life's thoughts on standard line

time is our master and our saviour
time is the bitch that keeps us wanting
time is held still for months
only for time to take it all away
only for time to leave a void in our chest
only for all substance to travel west

(this is a break up poem, enjoy)