duminică, 6 aprilie 2014

Compressed and depressed

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

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

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