One by one,
like poisoned mice,
the years
rot inside walls;
days and nights
leak into a bucket
from ceilings that
increasingly fail
as time passes.

Life departs
              in droplets.

We avoid the holes,
ignore the stench,
empty the pail
and pretend
that nothing changes.

As longs as it lasts,
we call this a life.

That life might fail
remains outside
our vocabulary,
allows us to
maintain the illusion
our crumbling
decrepit structure
is as normal
as waking up.

Until we don't.

  ~mce