Thursday, February 18, 2010


Quarter Past Five

Repulsed by the putrid
flavor of time wasted He droops
in bed, lashes glued on his lids
Cocooned by sheets Mastering the futile
art of turning and tossing Twisting
to find the perfect mold Time
is the universal currency It is dripping
away Mind racing around the web
of thoughts Biology ceasing to be in accord
with will The chronic disorder dulls
his skin Swells his eyes Dulls
his tomorrow The sun spills
on the corner of his bed He rises
because sleep fails again