A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


It's funny how
The time of now
Is never all the same,
With different light
By day and night,
Sometimes a different name,

With half awake
And half asleep,
Or somewhere in between,
And half that come
And half that go,
Or know not where they've been.

Upside down
And downside up,
Yet no one out of place,
For outside in
Or inside out
We're all one human race,

And all so clever
At taking forever
To finally put things straight,
So how is it funny
If now we never
Make time, until it's too late?

It's funny how
The time of now
Is never.
All the same.
With different light,
No day or night,
And no one to take the blame.

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