Time only flies when you aren’t
Looking for it. It’s a sea-bound piece of paper
That looks dry, seems solid
Until your life depends it.
Call it hope, the blood in your veins
Flowing without sight, believing there’s
Someone to push them on despite a lack
Of contract or even a promise.
Blood is only red when it feels
Reality. Like a desperate soul
Who’s lived behind walls, scratching the walls
Only to be overwhelmed by outside.
When your eyes crawl across the sun,
They drink its fire and steal a portion
To keep tucked in the void of an iris,
An unquenchable void for drowning a sun.
Call it self-pity, the pain of a life
Spent constantly looking up,
Praying to grow wings, to spread
Fingers across the sky.
Or call it the passion to feel something other
than desire, the soggy hope to feel blood
Drive itself to believe
That someone else is drowning
The sun as well.