- Books, Literature, and Writing
Counted Hours (Poem)
Endless pacing on heated pavement,
No point of objectives nor objection,
Only nostalgic sadness,
Embracing its counted hours.
As moonlight sinks the bright away,
Blurred next minutes anticipated,
But a step away from here
Is a dimension of bland regret.
From asphalt lands to meadows,
Flooded with flickering, colored, lights,
And eroding waves of sound,
Misleading to living daydreams.
Crowd's six was fitting, comforting,
Not much of crowd, gladly,
But a thirds had been swell,
Might have been more than millions.
Snapped on the twenty second,
Prayed two thousand beats more
For sake of the Dearest,
And this moment's dearest of all.
Parted soon, too soon
From the deafening and blinding.
Ahead, only vague promises
And days of parting to come.
However, no regrets on turning
Either of hinds or clocks the same,
Even the heart's mind deciding that
It should've been the other way 'round.
This line's purpose, to tell
Sometime, somewhere, it'll occur to both,
Those speak not only of silver clouds, but also
Of speckled absence, sharing its beauty.