The fake bells from this corporate clock
Won't have any competition where I'm going.
The silent skies will let the day pass unnoticed
And unwanted by the ever-dying monks.
The only vows they make now are to an
Hourly wage that comes straight from the coffer.
I'd prefer it if just one gave freely
Of his time to give me some of my own.
His and my daily routine has now become
Strange and undesirably new, like a pair
Of old shoes that you haven't put on for years,
But what's not here is killing me too.
I celebrate the hateful rain that falls like
A dead wet reminder of all the things
We love to complain about but easily forget,
But returning, means more than most of the rest.
This rotting wooden bench just drinks it in
And breathes it out like all of these changes
Never really happened and never really will,
As the sun beats down and dries out his bones.
No comments:
Post a Comment