Lies to the Left of Death
I remember those days,
those days we saw the emptiness that lies to the left of death,
those days that sleep beneath time,
and seem to slither down the sunrise,
seem to hide behind the night,
crawl between the words that we say,
fly through the moments that we keep,
dawdle through the tears that we weep,
and the morning still remains,
and the day still pertains,
to that moment that our mind sees itself on a dark, empty day,
and those seconds where it talks to itself,
and the dark goes away,
those moments stay.