a picture of me, a hour glass's soul.

soul of disguise,

my disposal of the urge of vanity,

silent looks or of the here and now,


shame blanket's my eye's,

with a vast moment of distant view's,

i walk to a dissatisfied figure of waste,

my broken hour glass reveals a closed face of withering warmth,


as the sand runs down the side's of a cracked soul,


allowing the coldness to creep it's way in,


smells of unknown scent's, consume my sense's, me a slave to it's will, like a sociopath's urge to do harm,


an exhibit of clocks hand's or the outer voice of my inner words that cannot be heard, with the intent to be,


my hour glass