Idle Speculation

To write in ink.

And stack the words

Atop themselves sink

Into a single zone;

Stratified but one.

A wet channel of darkness

That grows like a tumor

Across the rotten pages

The tale of lapsed ages

That do not fret

If you were dressed or not

They merely pass..

Despite your words.

Despite the ache of writing

Your pulse competes

A time bomb, it beats

Within a larger one

We are but fuel for time

But what is time?

A euphemism for death?

But what's a euphemism?

The bitter reality sweetened..

In other words, it's lying..

A superstition that exists

As long as we

Keep on providing.