The time’s slipping by,
some say that it is too shy,
to stop and say hi.
The seconds look back,
just for a nanosecond,
a slight blur in time.
The mobile has stopped.
it doesn’t move and is still,
it begins to ring.
So any road home,
will do on a winters night,
when it’s cold and dark.
The pencil leads on,
around the page in circles,
some call a scribble.
The tension’s rising,
and people are realising,
they own true passion.
The fog closes in,
like a veal of white or sin,
that conceals a crime.
The blood drips and drips,
from the pointing finger tips.
into a cold pool.
