The Times

The reflection of time itself

The seconds, the minutes, the hours, the days, the weeks, the months, the years, the decades, the centuries, the millenia

And I'm just laying here in my bare skin 

Wondering why this room continues to spin 

I'm laid out thin, wondering where life has been 

Where it will be, and I wish I were doing so with a grin 

But I've lost all faith in the future, and perhaps that's a sin 

In someone's eyes at least and perhaps I don't want tomorrow to begin 

Because that tomorrow is something I dread, the time therein 

The feeling within I express to you now, it's not a feeling I'd wish upon you or my 

Kin.

Author's Note

Feedback appreciated.

Reviews

[Sapientiam]

I can really feel the dread in what the future may bring in this poem. Time is a confusing, unexplained matter that seems to only induce fear as it continues. Tomorrow could either bring death, happiness, or possibly mediocrity. Time can steal as well as conceive... Yes, it's definitely thought provoking. Thanks for sharing this!