Wishing of the days

The day passes, like one and two and three

and thus each moment leaves

with no theme. The romance dies and

the smell fades away.

What am I looking for?

What? 

The horizon and the vista of the desert

hurts me for I cannot arrest their reach,

and I cannot forgive my sullen.

This clock is a pale face staring at me,

I don’t know since when and the penetrating

eyes enquire of something I can’t even read.

As it ticks, I shed one of my parts - a cell or a little

blood and now I am finding it hard to hang on.

What do I need to look for?

This is the question and  thus wishing of my days away.