If we actually lost our times,
Lost memories, faded pixels on glossy paper,
Shattered glass on the floor,
the love of time grasped me and fell to its death,
violated my mind and warped my next to beginning, into celestial bodies of nothingness,
Can times amount to different clocks?
...Or would we account our seconds some time later?
If love was actually described as it is;
Would it be what we expected or lost in our moments ahead?
If this is double spaced for implied meaning between the lines,
Could you really understand or are those just words you said?
If our minds are an abysmal nothing, would you and I really mean anything?
If this is just blander and I write like this incessantly,
Would you then find meaning in every letter and its entirety?
If this is an insignificant art but invaluable to me would it then be something?
If this is my reality every day, lost in every way, drama at every pause,
Corruption at every play, smiling just to be gay, would my scale...
Be enough in ounces, grams, pounds or tons in quality?
What if lost time is my amnesia, my diagnosis for insanity?
Between every paragraph, forgotten mediums and unwritten endings?
What if my exposition is the only thing that should matter to you?
What if an exposition is lived everyday and never ends,
Because what if-- I live in my past?
Perhaps I'll never make it to the future or never accomplish my dreams?
Who will cry for me knowing there are no outlets?
No pass ways,
Nothing past my limiting eyes, my walking in place, or the brick wall behind me,
The same Genesis to rest of my life, just unanswered prayers,
Never to come transitions...
Just perpetual expositions... What if I lost the time I thought I had in front of me.
Never found, just never reachable...
Who will buy me a new clock; because I seem to have lost my time...?