You appear plagued like meandering fingers across a gasping arena

Wasting time, hanging from a wall saturated by bleach and tar

Hues of paint, worn by the sun’s warmth and age

Left behind by the youth of your imaginings

Gazing neither from motionless depths

While flies gather about the remains of a corpse

Whose stench lifts above the lifeless blossoms and subconscious feces?

And you assemble, stills in contrast to the chill of the evening

Waiting

Putrefying

While maggots consume what’s left of abandoned food scrapings

Oh the enchantment you sentient, observing the circumstances that challenge to possess you

Naive to horrors you would summon such

However not devoid of the eloquent pleasure …they would not pass away unaided.

 

PAINTING THE TORMENT OF TIME

 

this was supposed to be from the clocks point of view

but I don’t see the flip