Molten Poetry

Let it burn.

Time has slowed

to a snail’s pace,

measured in epochs,

measured in red-faced,

tick-marked rage.

Where am I going?

Well, simply follow

my tracks, those

slimy en(trails) left

as I am ground between

life and earth’s grater,

like unsweetened hope-meal,

long over-boiled

by this depressing Hell.


©️ 2018.

One thought on “Tick Marks

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