There’s a heart that beats

and a clock that chimes.

Moments pass as they both keep time.

 

Opportunities lost again.

Words don’t flow from an idle pen.

Deeds don’t come from an idle hand.

Seeds won’t grow in a barren land.

 

Something stalks me, something’s there.

Something haunts my every prayer.

 

Aggravation, life slips by.

Desperation, sleepless nights.

 

Cold against the words I say.

Time won’t make this go away.

It merely ticks to count the deeds.

Mounting numbers don’t mislead.

 

They all add up to tell the tale

of downward slide towards the hell

that I’ve created. Idle hands.

Not but dust on barren land

depicts the seeds that I have sown,

and with this pen I’m left alone

in idle silence. Years go by…

as the heart beats on

and the clock keeps time.