SEVEN

We are all running a little late,

You & me.

The clock is ticking,

Pushing you & me,

Farther and farther,

Into twisted alleys,

Of vanished dreams.

You & me,

We are all running a little late.

Check in and check out,

Every single day,

For worthless recognition,

And bargaining papers,

To lead a pretence existence.

When is this going to stop?

Where is this going to end?

Red soil & double rocks,

On top of benign bodies and,

Charred charities.

Big, black creepy crawlies,

Coming to get you,

Nowhere to hide,

Nowhere to run.

You are stuck.

Here.

Indefinitely.