am conscious
of the ticking clock

how
the bleached reef
of a window frame
intimidates,
says
something
of a heed untaken,
propagates the
cloud-seed doubt
with lightly spoken
fallacy,

recoiling
on a layman
tongue.


Am
aware of where
the sentence stops.

where syllables
of rhinestone rain,
call sibylline ,

reverberate

in thick
galactic suburbs.

How
soporific
doppler-shifts of
moving conversation
played me, staring
down the outpost
of my unbecoming
walls.

The old hunter of past,
With the passion to ****,
The glimpse of death you have—
The thrills and chills I feel.

Mercy me, my mistakes—
Omit my name from the list.
All the nights and begging,
And confessions to the priest.

All for nothing it was,
All for nothing it is.
Your power’s beyond me—
My death shall come with ease.

No longer I evade,
No more regrets I bear.
No matter how you try,
It’s time to face my fear.