Count Not a Minute Gone Past
Count not a minute gone past,
Scurrying 'neath the brush at our feet,
Nibbling on toes and morsels of flesh, lying
Inside this box we now call home,
A strange miasma hovering above us and squinting
To examine the white in our hair, the wounds in our hearts,
A head with no body now mouths pretty words,
Looking so tired, so tired,
As Death turns for a second look, another laugh,
Appalled at the distance of years,
Driven mad by a life cleanly wasted,
By this drum in my head,
Beating seconds into a frenzy, giving birth
To the minutes and hours, paving the way
For an ancient future that silently stutters
And finally knocks at the door. Come in.
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