another day passes as clocks refuse to tick
as subtle things, you’d like to miss, for once, seem to click
while gardeners with pale skin, green thumbs, and blue eyes
knock the world’s unorthodox problems down to size
and nothing around, or even out there, truly change
but instead, tilt on its axis staying parallel to the same.
although, another day timorously retreats, slipping idly by
strangers hang, like musk of lust in bars, in vacant doorways
awaiting a certain, peculiar feeling: of love, or loss – both doth die.
and upon an ocean’s reflection of timid skies
there lies, on the green land of the earth
grave diggers, along with grave robbers, and the one in the hearse:
to think if only time could reverse what the grave will rob
then again, staying alive is our only true job
until we’re past the last chapter,
and we are filled with angel’s holy laughter;
we all know modern life is disaster
a product of our obsession to living so much faster.