Count.

ONE.

A frozen clock,
It doesn't measure,
the committed sins,
for if we never measured,
there would be no time.

A struggling loser,
she doesn't stint,
she doesn't mind,
existing in the nothings of betrayal,
traitor luck, pretentious fate,
shambles; life.

A lost reason,
it's looking.
Reaching out.
For its master.
for true stalwart quality.

A mystic forest,
is misunderstood.

Feeling, mourning, expounding.
Always.
But,
no matter what,
it will be,
what you expect;
not.


TWO.

A chirp.
Is it?
Or is it a lost scream?
A searching tide?
A helpless night?
An inexperienced lover, perhaps?

A rustle.
Friction.
A sudden intake of breath.
A sigh.
They're all akin.

An aghast,
an apprehensive,
an expecting,
a broken,
expression.

Broken,
irregular,
like a patient's heart..
Beating.
Beatin.
Beati.
Beat.
Bea.
Be.
B.
.
.

Till it fades away.



THREE.

Swinging through age,
Climbing through phases,
I don't really,
know,
what to say.

It's a huge pile of hogwash,
one after the other,
together,
with each other,
occurring at the same time,
same moment,
exactly.

Convulsed or contracted,
hidden or hurt,
tucked or tricked,
loved or late,
a small difference there is.
though it is, essentially, the actuality.

Blowin' in the wind style,
is the sad part,
the latter is the mist,
it's averse.
you gave on,
life goes on,
God counts on you, child,
please,
let him down,
do.