When Your Numbers Up. Poem by Eric E. Butterworth

One lonely male, waits longingly for that girl,
Two halves of his heart split from being in a whirl.
Three divisions his mind, body and soul,
Four limbs that enfold her and make them feel whole.
Five digits entwined never to be broken free,
Six times they kissed, before opening their eyes to see.
Seven days they would meet, never knowing of fear,
Eight hours of toil each day, then home to his dear.
Nine rejections has finely gravitate some form of reaction,
Ten years he promised to wait for Utopia, but not perfection.
The clock as started, the sands of time begin to flow,
Then time stands still, and the last grain has to go.
Where will we be on this earth we call hell!
If we should meet, I will open my mouth to foretell.
That destiny can never be forecast or be foretold,
The only sure thing in this life, is you die when you grow old