Without A Clear Plot

They say they possess the reason we breathe
when really we’re nothing more than debris.
Season will come and seasons will pass
But because of the masks I'm sensing a lack
of renown places to place our faces
of mistrusted woven friendship bracelets.

“All in good time” says these voices so clear,
but they’ll cheat on their wives in the upcoming year.

Oh how they’ll let these mornings rot
And awake to their worries without a clear plot.
By taking the short cut they’ve cut short on breath.
Empty lungs are a symptom of a gasping death.
And they’ll say they posses the reason we live
My theory of life is to forever forgive.

They live for the future which approaches so fast,
while eternity is constantly creating a past.
So live by your worries to live with the stress
I find it relaxing to live second best.