A moment hangs by the weary noose of time
Like a soaked tea bag twirling, twisting around its thread,
Above the oval surface of a waste bin, ready to be despatched.
The tiny flowers that abound the grieving wreath
Stealing their last glimpse of light, what do they think?
Not long before they will but wilt,
yet what is the end –
The click of the coffin lid,
or the resounding thud of landing in a waste pile
Or were they all dead long before?
A clumsy fly caught in a spider’s mesh,
How she savors the moments of coiling, pulling her prey,
And at last death stings
yet was it not dead long before?
Are the moments all the time leading up to it
– all the time inducing the dull death sleep?
When you see death staring at you through a secret door,
What thought escapes the conscious?
As the soul is wrenched, drained of the essence,
and yet, just moments before..
would you know that they were
all the time leading up to it, furtively?
Chance is the association of the unsuited and the irrelevant
in the panorama of an impassive eye.
Life is that moment, lingering betwixt eons of darkness –
the Poet’s cradle, hovering above an infinite abyss.
I’m the word that escaped the dead quivering lips who stole –
a few twirling moments before being sucked into the black hole..