Investment in chronology,
bringing impending doom,
with the decay of your biology,
wasting away in your room.

The seconds are hours,
the hours are weeks,
in building your towers,
your brain cells grow weak.

Ticking of hands,
naught but an illusion,
only beginnings and ends,
decide death and contusions.

Do not live for the present,
do not live for the past,
the future resent,
only trust in the flask.

This day that recurs,
is it all in my head,
or an overture,
the real life before dead?

What is a life,
in ruptured peace,
just fodder for pens,
expended on sheets.

Will it ever be,
the way it was in my head,
those things that I've seen,
lying awake in my bed?

I cannot dwell on what I think,
There is no point to this fight,
I'll just allocate ink,
and try to live how I write.