The stationary ticking

With caved in candles and freshly painted walls, time vibrates with no advanced movement. Day in, day out -  it remains a little past five, indicating the end of the work day or the beginning of the afterlife. 

The fumes of hell seep from the dirt, the dung beetle's body seeks a reincarnated spirit to infuse it with life, the rings of doom spiral out of control - swirling in a centripetal motion, the heavenly gates squeak apart in desperate need of the tin man's oil

the end of one life, the start of another. the beginning of an end of sorts. a new adventure awaiting a departed soul. 

proving them wrong in this next turn, them - the capitalized so-called truth, the righteously arrogant, the forceful ones shoving their authentic revelations down innocent throats, the blinded ones incapable of seeing perspective, the ones who don't realize that the waves are part of the larger ocean

rolling the dice and continuing the game until the lost turn forces me to step back

the monotonous beeping noise reverberating off of the hospital's bare walls stirs motion even in the laziest of creatures. 

pulled plug giving the puller a push of electric current swimming through one's skin. the peaceful draping of the symbolic white sheet. the fires of ancient ancestry consuming what once was. 

the five stages ignite with meaning, starting the student on the yellow brick road

the tightening of the chest, barely breathing to cover up the heaving pain circulating through the arteries, the unregulated pulsing through the heart, the uncontrollable flood of tears streaming, flowing, cascading downriver

not letting go, not able to let go

yet the ticking incessantly pours out into the night, ignorant of the consequences, drowning silence's hum with a backward hand