The world spins
On instant access
Where secrets
Divulge
In the second of their conception
And news
Burns like star-fall
And dies as quickly
To the black
And old.
And time,
Shackled workhorse
To the mind
Careers
As never should
It fall precious
Past uncaring hand
And fingers barely touching,
Racing
Itself to panting
Wreck and ruin:
All of what it’s worth
Spent
In a flash
Of fast food
And capitalism,
Memorised
Even before
Its moment
Of occurrence
And physical birth.
The future
Travelling
To the past
But heart bypassed
So as not to happen
In the now
At all.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015
