Waves circulate,
controlling the air consumed.
A deathly concoction;
sweet yellow roses
sharp silver chained.
Aroma of overwhelming necessity.
Primitive act of the aging anatomy.
The ticks drop to the floor,
numbers join the invisible waves.
No end to the craves eating away
deteriorating.
Comfort will not be found
until the race against the numbers seize.
Yet a single feather consoles
the melting mass.
Soon, a pillow found
with love near
a deep slumber shall be slept.