Every tick a theft, stealing your very right to exist, your very right of breath.
Time is all that is left, a measurement, a counting, a ticking to death…
The light, it irritates, it violates, and it penetrates my space and makes mockery of my being. It rapes my mind; it tears apart the very existence of I. It burns my skin, and everything therein, boiling the reminiscence of my sin.
Light is death to dreams, and death to the understood, for die does my dreams of what should, of what would, if what only could….
For as I transcend I see,
Time, is no mans friend.
But time beats a heart in me,
a rhythm, a play,