by Tony Bush |
Categories:
angst, death, introspection, life, loss, time, time,
Plans are all I made as life crept by,
By all accounts crafted and clever,
Strategic endeavours in my minds eye
That would furnish the future forever.
Plans were all I formed as love drove past,
Looking forlorn as it wavered,
Then speeding away so unfeasibly fast,
Before it was captured and savoured.
Plans were all I dreamed as nights droned on,
Decisive and suitably cunning,
Astutely creative and worked hard upon,
As the motor of living kept running.
Plans, pointless plans now time is short,
No one here from my past of distraction,
No more plans to make, no more time to be bought,
Just some funeral arrangements in action.