The yellow clock ticks more slowly than the orange
But around both is enveloping blackness,
A letter from some
Black ink on black paper.
It all ends up the same
Is it the same conversation
With a different name?
The peas rot more slowly
But the seconds don’t matter
When you know where you’re going.
When you don’t is when the tick is your music
And the silence between your thinking time
To plan the next graceful leap into chaos
And hope for peaceful oblivion.
Sinister shadows of reality hoover at the corners,
Desperate for dust,
squashing the escapist bubble
and it bursts.