Favorably Abstract Poem by Moth Harris

Telling stories of the future is a wise man's job.
The past will only rob us of our time.
Intertwined in this rhyme, in between the lines
is the design it confines, a diamond in the rinds.
Sublime, I'm reminded of the crime I've committed,
dim witted, I've left myself open ended in the scene,
a scheme, so perfectly serene, I mean clean.
As I put down my magazine and wonder what has become of this world.
A cold iced tea, a dead routine, and a lost and lonely little girl.