So we're here again:
digging for answers,
paper like dirt
covering my arms, my hands
fumbling with edges, tripping
on the written word.
Wasn't this all once
so much more simple?
What happened to the empty
hours, the dark hours,
when nothing was limited,
when time grew like flowers.
Somewhere between
now and then
someone planted a countdown,
an electrical weed blaring,
blaring loudly,
blaring out our end.
The room flickers
and I think this is it:
the void has come
to darken our sun,
to drown our garden,
to watch the time die.
And my hands can't find the answers,
my fingers can't find the words.
Hours, like flowers are drifting – they're dying –
electricity doesn't mix with flowers,
and when the light goes out, they drown.