What else is there?
As we stand and watch water boil away leaving bloated rice,
and we look at cracks in the floor that have trapped the dust and grime of life.
The clock ticks... ticks... ticks... Snapped Back. Where is the tock?
Blood pools in the kitchen bin, cools amongst the packets and discarded food,
congealed petals torn from the dying rose,
saved and disposed.
Settled in purgatory for the things that time strips...
squeezing through a narrowing tunnel
shed, reject and flee for the end
or lie and fail, bloated.
Don't take it from me...
the greatest liberty
is choosing when to throw
your own life away.