Constant

The banging of a drum
in night time sure as fate

a blade of thought
shall be forgot
because it is to late.

Pleasure was a fraction
of time spent leisurely
your heart wills more
but minds abhor
love rationed measurably.

The banging comes yet nearer
brushing against the soul
in time you say
when less array
two should become a whole.

Walk across the distance
soar across the sea
tis' the flight of time
your thoughts as mine
for all eternity.