The fragments come hard and fast and so to say.
Chunks torn from their rightful souls come fluttering,
spinning hatefully at me, like an angry rain.

It is not raining somewhere in the dreamlands,
somewhere. Somewhere is here, and the drought
is thick. The waking world embraces me firmly,
but I am wrenched within it's grasp;

The sunset of one man is the sunrise of another.

This is how it has always been, and will always
be until there cease to be sunsets and sunrises
and less importantly, people to watch them.

There is somewhere in the dreamlands, a tobacco can
lid, upon which his name will begin with the letter
Z and be repetitive, with an echo.

The number is twenty three.

Drought, rain, drought, rain.

My lips are parched as always. Dry and cracked
like emotion. Hesitant. Weather-beaten.
Callous. Hopeful.

The ending will be at hand, is at hand, was
at hand, will be at hand.

I have always been..
a timepiece.