Laundering
Like the unclothed lover lays stretched across canvas,
The year was splayed across a wait without closure;
I’ll see the end when the end is over.
But death is as flat as words offered out of concern;
It was kicked across a churchyard that since has burned.
And in time, I drowse in a conscious breadth,
Where eternity seems far worse than death.
We use our time like we money launder.
An excess that we reluctantly offer,
Plain day standing red-handed at the coffer.
Coating holes with poetics,
For the self we abandon.
Heaping higher powers,
From the virgins that we ransom.
And the flame goes;
The lives tick down.
I scream to wake the waning crowd:
"The time that came for us is now.”
Copyright © Jessica Vh | Year Posted 2015
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