Time marches onward,

turn the hands forward,

never to rewind

with the present I shall rebind;

so once more I take up the pen

never paying mind or wondering when

my time should ever come

for I’m marching to the beat of my own drum,

with a new and burning zeal

and nerves composed of steel,

that I can muster at the least,

for my heart is back in the East.
Time marches onward, turn the hands forward, never to rewind with the present I shall rebind; so once more I take up the pen never paying mind or wondering when my time should ever come for I’m marching to the beat of my own drum, with a new and burning zeal and nerves composed of steel, that I can muster at the least, for my heart is back in the East.
0 Comments 0 Shares 22 Views
InkBlot Art https://beta.inkblot.art