The ticking clock

The future is near never far to dismay, and our lives are so close to un play.
Those damn pigs laugh outloud to their sins. Hypocritical bastards.
Breathe as I've said and exhale to the tumbled.

Dear composer,
Those awful memories come back to haunt the innocence of the day, beckoned scornful. How the hollows hang dangling in demise abandoning  sunfilled shelters indulging on the silent joys that many seem to take for granted.
Throb so loud inside this cage.
Heartless figures crave upon me, wanting no more but the love inside. Remember those ministers who cried to a sleeping king, the amount of backpains arose suspicion on me, granting me the perspective of a sage.
Now I'll save my words for another time.
Keep on reading and wishing for the rest.