Molasses

I've always wondered why,
bad things happen,
in slow motion,
with a yawning movement,
and picked-apart fragments,
like an old movie,
with a missing frame.

 

Slow-mo scenic route,
limbs surrounded by gelatin,
trenching warfare to move,
inching just barely,
but still breaking,
and cracking under,
the momentary lapse of time,
and cranial awareness.

 

Tragedy is always slow,
like the movement,
of a thick bathwater,
slapping against,
the tub's porcelain sides;
tragedy is slow to leave,
right when it is most wanted,
to be gone with,
and licked shut with saliva,
while slapped with a 49 cent stamp.