The fast ticking clock that knows no despair, tangles the mighty clouds of youth,
skies no longer friends, come to kiss my weeping.
Silk children weave to the thread of sweat, in factories where Hell’s
hopelessness, tells beautiful black and white lies, to ruling class poets.

So soon the tomorrow breaks in, like the cruel sea batters the sea wall, and I am
gone, yearning for the place where no one talks of, “Great men” “Great Poets” and
where no applause shames the ego of position.

If only I could say;” Meet me again in the midnight air” and be 19 years old once
more.

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