hours neatly ironed and packed away
in suitcases that have seen
too many dirty floors
minutes seasoned with
hot contempt and cold forgetfulness
in transparent tombs
that most often hold for
plates
seconds strapped to
slouching shoulders,
molding themselves above
a crooked backbone,
slipping away beneath
a blue beast
my decades are surreal
my years are numbers
my days are compressed
and depressed sequences
of events that succumb
to evanescence
feeling becomes slightly peculiar
when serving
to a timer
I've learned to fear
the clocks which count
my existence
Niciun comentariu:
Trimiteți un comentariu