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.