I sit here still and maybe rot.
I pit my will against the knot
That knits and frills my stomach taut.
Hands stick.
Gears lock:
An evil trick
that madly mocks.
~~~~~ ~~~~~
With virgin candle lit and bright flame burning hot,
I try to fill with wit this ever stretching lot.
It seems that I have writ more maybe than I aught.
The strong flame licks.
My hot heart knocks.
The long white waxy wick
Seems cold hard weary rock.
~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~
The staggered steps plod up this hill. I fear that I may grow distraught.
I think anticipation kills. A weekend’s bliss is dearly bought.
It seems I left my bones to chill by dwelling upon warm forethought
My blood beats sticky, thick.
My breaths mark off epochs.
Each pulsing pause is sprawled cosmic,
All Being falls between the Tocks.
