Time is an abyss.
The universe is a faulty wrist watch;
it’s ticking slows,
Whimpering out like a fly in a puddle.
I am but a cold concrete building,
On a foggy winter morning.
Cars drive by,
The sounds of stuttering engines and
Train cars rattle my broken glass windows
As the graffiti and chain link fences keep me warm at night.
I am a dog begging at the table, grateful for scraps
I am a gift, left in the container, to preserve its value,
But I am only gathering dust
The ground will shake.
It’s all foreign to me.
When all is said and done there will be
nothing left.
And even if they may often falter,
We are but our memories.