The itching of the clock...Awaiting the scratch of the scab filled moments in time. <br /> <br />The seconds and minutes that morph into hours...The days dried out in the Sun of man. <br /> <br />What awaits us as we play our lives emptied of instrumental gain? ...We are raisins in the Sun scorched and abraizened by what they've-pain. <br /> <br />Lessons of the heart, are not yet-ripe...Until our soul, hath grown in might. <br /> <br />Our pain of soul, all dressed up, a-windowed...Last one left, umarried-forgotten widow. <br /> <br />Consumed of heart and unlasted host of happy...Alas my soul, forlorn and bored and crappy.<br /><br />Michael Gale<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-wasted-life-that-inched-by-gone/
