The sans of time
Grow arid, it does seem,
Void of all the subtle things,
To rest your hope in but one design
Seems to me a waste of time,
All your life you’ve sought for answers
From questions posed in gossip columns,
You truly are a charitable and giving soul,
Offering everything and bestowing plenty more,
But what’s the point, laboring about in fruitless fields,
Where the only harvest will be thanklessness and callous insensitivity?
You’re heart has never been the organ in which we question,
If only your head be nudged in the right direction,
There is merit in much of what you attempt to say and do,
But it’s the choices made that defy all reason,
Instead of focusing your efforts on the poor or sick,
You’re using logic on the mentally ill,
Explaining rational thought, and
Trying to teach the constructs of free will,
When dealing with the sans of time,
Like the hourglass, it will run dry,
Moisten your palms, lest I fear, you’ll go without,
As sand does sift, so do the grains of life
