It becomes as it sounds,

Where you’re reaching a point,

On becoming that to see what is before one’s eyes,

If it is worth the time or not . . .


In a case like this,

It wasn’t,

Oh yes there were times that it was fine,

In others,

It was all but nothing to walk away.


Wonder of how time goes,

In few lucky moments,

It’s short and engaging as spreading sea salt,

Over an open flesh wound,

And silence never leaves one throat.


Maybe in time the wound will heal,

And a joyful face will grace upon oneself,

But now a face of confusion is all there really is.


To see what eyes have come upon,

Undoing will never happen,

For it’s there,

Hollow in the easiest way of saying it,

Worth a moment,

Differs for those unknown of what’s to come.


But as again,

It’s reaching a point,

To really care anymore,

For that,

Lacking any care is now,

Moving on is the next move.


Be done now,

And let it die,

As a slow but soon healing,

Scar fading in era.

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