This Place Is Not Home

"Mother said, time waits for no man, But I am a mental nomad, wandering edges of the homelands with no plans, picking pieces of the time dad had in his hands, forgotten before his last dance, casting shadows of his last stance, standing next to an empty shell of a man with broke hands,time leaking through, means, to AN END, would kill to defend, proud to pretend, prepare the great fall, family my achilles heel, the village icarus whispering chorus & hymns, embracing the breeze flapping wings till the heels tilt, broke my back from carrying this bag of big dreams, crawling the ravines, the spine of where crippled tears meet, a river of shallow shacks shining their desperate teeth, biting the hand that feeds, greet greed with a slap on the cheeks, I've got mouths to feed, but their hunger supersedes the money seeds planted beyond the growth of groceries, They hung me with a kitchen cloth, left my carcass to rot in a cesspool of wandering thoughts, a penny to the flies that kiss my flesh with hope to bring forth offspring that will soon crawl spaces blessed by time, Mother told me to run and hide, but I chose to walk the sunlight chest up pointing to the sky and shouting to GOD, 'If time is enemy allow me to bring my arms & let the this hands tell if I am weak or damned, either way my purpose will be felt.' As time approached, I knelt before the right time encroached plans i made before the cockcrow, I sought salvation in the process of self progress, surmounting my inhibitions, I now know what time waits for no man means in the grand scheme of things..." - MoseArt (Timepiece)