Reminiscence

Perfect White 
 
The hands of time with not a sound 
 for what was lost cannot be found 
 So soft in wait till morrows dreams 
 from Isles deep within his screams 
 .. 
 
 The fruit to feel with not a core 
 far deep in sleep for evermore 
 fall fast in rain from crimson skies 
 forlorn torn song of boyish eyes 
 .. 
 
 With all the world but to a cinder 
 where nothing lived but ash and tinder 
 The sands that sieved and fell apart 
 would slowly fill his loveless heart 
 .. 
 
I found this from a long time ago, the irony is that its not perfect, Im sorry about the formatting, I couldnt get rid of the spaces between lines.