the books in my room gather dust.
time turns to satin—on the shore
of ideas, an old boat coats with rust.
in the wind echoes its engine's ancient roar.

children play their games in the street.
ashes of the sun flushed down the toilet.
all things seen and unseen begin their retreat
as fun comes to an end, the adults spoilt it.

not a day goes by—that's all, that's it.
no one wants even to ask if
                                                                 we're going to make it.