I think a lot about time
How its dimensions crash
Through the narrow fields
Of rice and wheat
Ploughing relentlessly
Towards the inevitable
Concluding scenes
Stories that end
Hold greater power
Than stagnant mouldy
Soap left against the taps
For baths I never take
Time finds a way to get
Under my skin
The dark nail filed
Trimmed hair grows longer
Autumnal weather blows
Solitary axes to grind out
A life made of the scraps
As if it’s enough to halt
The silent stare of
Juxtaposed spectrums
Everything happening
In one blink