A March

The marching hands of the clock
tick-tock by
right on by the light
of the sun
and the reflection of the moon
in our lonesome eyes

And they do not wander aimlessly as we
they never ceace to march
and they never have to have worry
of being victim of predators' grasping claws
for their purpose is set

Grasping for nonexistant air,
our lungs become purposeless
when we enter the depths of water
that scatter across the void

Take the riches into our hands
but they are fake
and nothing but dirt

For in this place we must find our own riches
found only when the greed is no more
and the future is bright; not dingy
and the smile is one that is fulfilled
not empty

But the seconds tick
and tock
right on by
And the wordless questions never stop
and our mouths are running
but running out
of stamina

We keep running forward
ahead of the line
to catch something that is told as great

but will it make us happy?