Whispers of tree leaves,
shaking fibres of the very skin. A breeze
creeping through all of the wall cracks.
Breath heavy not of stink, but cold breath;
a weighing heart of ice deep in my chest.
Sin in my bones, (from birth) weakness of
the flesh. Time is plenty on my hands.
Intent on the mind, procrastination under breath.
"I'll do it all tomorrow"
I recalled a bird's song as a morning lullaby,
rooster crow echoes of less time left in a dream.
Diminutive time; clocks going full circle several times.
"Fine I'll do it in the afternoon"
The Eve sets on the day,
as to kiss her Adam, as the first sun.
But it's the last light of dusk coming into play,
wasted by the nothing of planning to do something.
"Snap! Where did the day go"
Back to the start of the end, into the new
beginning of procrastination.
"I'll definitely do it tomorrow"
Yeah right.
