a hemophiliac filled with the blood of
boredom.
Time is an inscrutable stare commandeering
questions,
a living dinosaur of the mind, grazing on
imagination,
a midwife to first impressions that are crowning.
Time is a lady, fingering hair on the chest of
now,
a confessional for long lines of silently whispered
logic,
a flowering vine for the living and the blooming of
lies,
a vampire deep-sucking on a darken moon of
busyness.
Time is a gas-guzzler of the fossil fuels we exploit,
the stupor of gravity impactfully hung as human skin,
a choreographer of lungs as recurring performers,
a first-nighter that naievely laughs at
non-existence.
Time is a wino with a thirst for the
unceasing,
a metronome drone behind the fluidity of dreams,
a thousand eyes of observance reporting on
laziness.
Time is self-consciousness in
shadows, reflecting on you,
a memory pondered now, in hand-me-down drag,
an artist of repeatable behavior as actional tattoos,
a available arm, always free to turn the page.
Time is the father of this moment,
that has handed what I have written on to you.
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