All I own is a hand full of change, all I care for is for the world to rearrange, no simple rhymes and no darker times could lead me back to what I may never know. The glass beyond has no color or shape, or definition, or explanation, or time, only a glimpse of what could be, what I pray, will someday be mine. Without the drama or laughter, comedy or divine, I do not care about what I pray to be mine.
And I will be yours, forever and more, and statements and words, and life without core. Without rhymes and score, I know there's no more, what lies ahead and unknowns are in store. All I can do is imagine a world, a month, a year, a moment of yours. And sure enough as life went before, and will go on forever and more, and all I know is pain and growth, and the bad soliloquies, pain-staked thoughts and frozen depths of a lost understanding, of life and children, of joy and smiles, and possibilities seen, not by God or by miles.
A truth, no words can explain, or find or ignore, a hope that I can implant what could be in store. But if life existed it was and not were, tales would be poured of our time and much more, cadence and word become such a bore, when I get a split second of what you have bore. A glimmer, a hope, a smile, a second, all gone in the is's and won't's of what will never be splendid.
A day, a minute, and hour, or glance, I cannot deny such a miserably fortunate circumstance. I am but a fish with a bit of worm, a fisher losing his crawl, I cannot laugh, I will not ball, but I will long, for the distant doll, and as life goes, I will forever dream and want, what I'm destined to chase, a prayer I can repeat and will never have, and though it pains to know what is truth, I am blessed have seen beauty in a world, so closed to the most and controlled by the host, a glimmer of hope in the beads I love most, and this, will never change, and so though it may be a hand full of dime, I still hold on to things which could be down the line.
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