Nothing comes for free.

Time races though our veins

shortening our days like a hungry wind.

Everything costs everything

and there is no bargaining with the collector.

Covet and clamour to be sated,

but that gnawing in the pit of your stomach

is a reminder that you

are a ticking time bomb.


Sunlight’s last traces paint the edge of the world

awakening our sleepy ghosts

and giving glow to our last dying embers.

Brilliant as the dawn may be,

it is only beautiful

to the hushed tones of the end of the world.

Shadows stretch out,

long and languid spectres.

Telltale signs of what we are to come

and their arms are weightless,

but unbreakable.


Our whole lives

we wake with the day.

We open our eyes

and draw into our lungs

the breath of life,

perfect in its delicacy.

Then the rush subsides,

and the barrowman comes

to collect our earthly corpse

and we are wind again.

Dust and stars,

they say.

We are what the universe is made of,

then we are everything else.




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