The hour glass is on a diet.
The more she loses
The less we have,
Then what?
Then what do we do
With the bucks we gathered,
The thoughts we sold,
The grandeur uncollected,
Our washed up souls.
When it is time to go,
You won't see me with
A stale cigarette at the tip
Of my ruby red nails.
Oh no. You'll see me
At the sumit of a mountain-
Just on the edge-
and with my last breath--
Pavement collects among
The base of my cheek
Which got cold and clammy
On the ride down from paradise.
The sands of time congeal,
Mass together with the curves
in the Earth, but it's not our fault.
Not ours that the bulimic pendulum
Made us grasp too firm.
