drivelin'

this foul stench,
this sour mash of time,
recommending itself,
though not upon thy tongue.
I could've sworn I smelt something,
(though why bother asking you?)
We're so sad and so beseeching,
or is your heart so sincere,
that we both agree to play fools?
And your eyes, they turn me.
A personal tragedy,
a melancholy that's so puny -
and when reality crashes,
we search for meaning.
We talk and never remember anything.
Please, I know your suffering,
promises don't mean anything;
your thoughts linger with mine.
The past and the future,
both inevitably intertwine;
ambitions and demons,
both crumpled up with Time.