the sand in the clock falls slowly to time,
we are just another grain in the flow past its prime.
Is this what they call life,
discontent frames of moving lives.

Fingers of accusations points on through,
like broken glass, that cut you soul through.
Did you wait for a day like this,
when the roses bloomed, happiness lied in the folds of a kiss.

Am I broken like the shards of glass?
whats left of me, mere reflections of my past.
The day comes to me with morning light,
I pray the wings of my dreams soon take flight.
At the end ,its all a battle or strife,
Is this what they truly call life?