Tired eyes glance quickly

At an old, dusty clock

On a gray, solitary wall.

Ten more seconds.

 

I can survive for ten more seconds.

10. 9.. 8... 7.... 6..... 5..... 4...... 3....... 2......... 1.

Every look is a guilty confession,

A secret and solitude motivation.

 

Every tick moves slower than the last

Every second stretches out longer,

Every moment my heart screams more loudly

In the urgent reverberation of silence.

 

The deception of a clock

That seems to continue

In it's monotonous tick and tock

Has the power to destroy naive souls.

 

Life is a hand-held hour-glass.

The tics freeze in their progression,

But the current of sand rushes.

The hour-glass is running low.

 

Can it be endured?

This deeper, pressing pain

That turns water-color sunsets

Into one gray, solitary wall?

 

A pain that comes with just waiting-

Waiting for a life to begin again.

Waiting for the want to survive.

Waiting for more time.

 

Another ten seconds.

A repetitious cycle

That demands to replays itself

And torments my very existence.

 

Holding on to something-

With ghostly-white knuckles

That bleed from desperation-

Are some things worth this?

   

Waiting for Time to decide.

If not for another breath,

I'm waiting for that night

That torments me in my sleep.

 

Dreams that feels so close,

Yet never seems to come.

When relief is hiding behind gloomy shades

People lift themselves just enough to fly-

 

With their hope clutched tight

In the palms of their tainted souls,

They glance back at their gray, solitary wall-

And jump at their sunset with a deathly leap.

 

People pretend to understand death,

As if empathizing their vast knowledge

To an uncomprehending child.

They think they know what I do not.

 

All I know for sure,

is that nobody does.

But that my ignorance is

Something I will soon discover.

 

The illusion of difficulty

Is the pain the pollutes the dying

Whether by God or fate or random circumstance

Death comes easily like a clear, crystal water.

 

I have not chosen it-

It has chosen me.

I am leaving my gray, solitary wall.

No. Dying is not so hard. Living is.