Expectations fell through the bottomless alienations of dreams.

Asking why me is nothing more than a pitiful self involved hug with dead arms.

One lousy blink and thirty years died.

There will be no answer because there will be no ears.

There will be no satisfaction because there will be no questions.

The clock never moves, though my face proves the opposite.

How it got this far could be explained if I was brave enough to look back.

 But back means behind and forward means fear, which leaves doing nothing the real culprit.

The thief of imaginings.

By:  K. Mulroney