Scribbled On A Poster

 

Like the hollow screams in the dark-

The perturbed Roach lunges for fear of light.

He realizes that days wear off on walls;

like a canvas slowly deteriorating-

while the clock ticks;

it's hands; 

a movement caused in spite;

called pendulum

by man's standard.

Was it the daily torment 

of having to confine oneself

in a little village called

the WORLD?

Breathe and exist for a while,

then be gone?

The Roach thinks.

He hesitates for now,

Even now-

while time

slowly ticks off to its' own boredom-

and delight.

A ratchet of events;

a precursor set by nature;

glues the reality in the dark-

he
understands.

The Roach gets back-

to bed and yawns;

again;

to the Mundane-

accompanied by sadness;

allegro, andante.