Yearning for a much simpler time,
yet the ticking clock only stops,
when the overlord behemoth's thumb,
presses the languid clicker at the top.

Churning are these guts of mine,
bones ground to juice that flops,
a remainder of all things in sum,
mass ****** equations; divide, drop.

Burning are high stakes of thine,
the living inferno never, ever stops,
bullet holes spew from a smoking gun,
a blue prison; is all you'll ever cop.

Returning to the scene of the crime;
are the leopard gecko's slimeball spots,
no contrived camouflage under the sun,
could disguise what you haven't got.

Spurning longjevity in life's grand design,
ageing knees and elbows; envy baby cots,
yarns left woollen trails as they're unspun,
concepts were a 1 in 400 trillion shot.

Learning to make the most of light ashine,
the gloaming thief of joy; takes the lot,
every evening He turns his back to shun,
the roving wanderers without a **** or ***.

Earning a reputation for standing in line,
we all fall head long; as we come-a-crop,
the tasers are always set to stun,
as high priests of power scheme & plot.

Unturning are; unlimited tides of time,
oceans render; we sailors, besot,
waves of deathly wordplay; minus puns,
it's the sum of; every jet & flot.

No matter how many bottled signals,
we've received or sent,
time always sends;
the final message in the end.

Yes, my friend, no matter how many bottled signals,
we've received or sent,
time always sends;
the final message in the end.

© poormansdreams