I miss you.
But not as much as I thought I would.
My time passes,
Though dull and tedious
It passes.
Like a never ending supply
Of sand,
Passing though my hands
With the occasional
Seashell,
Slowing
Time
Down
Until
It
Smoothly passes through, letting time pass
With such ease and letting it flow like a river under a bridge.
Constant.
Until the next shell.
But let’s get past this one first.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
welcome to poem hunter you write good sensitive poetry-congrats...