You thought, I wouldn't write it?

Time inspires a ticking bomb, I will evaporate into a song.
You do your things, as you would have.
Without any conscience, I like your hat.
Another time, again we wait.
The summer flies, we dissipate.


Salt against the glistened skin, porcelain and figurative.
Only half-alive, thoroughly rare and humbly free.
The other half, I keep with me.
Weeping eyes, of our tree,
Discolored and so fatigued.


Disfigured, yet so alive.
A dreamy touch, a fleeting smile.
Pushed against a glassy sky,
Rosy cheeks, walk by.