by Matt Bruce

Time suspends itself, hanging an array of colloquialisms to desire,
Ably willing to preside over the need you provide, dawn seemingly attires,

Hours can’t be conceived yet mere minutes bereaved at the notion,
They say love is one yet one is not loved, superfluously into this emotion,

A vision of the unseen can’t erase the notion of the momentary screams,
So viable, so young with a hope for a life conceived only in your lavish dreams,

Nothing lasts forever, except death to the heart of the innocent she has been,
Stating that cruelty and eventual dissimulation are all that is and has ever been,

How shall I aspire to define innocence from a moving train?
With my purpose show the lingering doubt which flows again and again,

A heart shall beat, yet did you know?
A fragile heart won’t evade the pain which others bestow,

Searching for a silent sacrifice to run to this conclusion,
Living life figuratively to pound on walls of illusion,

What defines the truth to an evoking brain?
Who defines the trouble which might uncouth at the sight of those you entertain,

Could it be me? Could it be me?
The grass may fall…