Vevna Forrow

Sick Liquid Tick

I am running out of time.

The hands keep poking at my mind — this ought to be a crime

The days are a dripping headache  — like the ceiling.

My dry skin is peeling — losing all feeling.

I cannot defeat such winding sadness  — ticking is reeling.

My hours are robbed — such a horrid stealing.

Remaining are always dropping minutes of heartache.

Remaining is a bucketing wake.

For heavens sake — pause the gears by this house on the lake!

Can no one hear my heart quake?

Nothing will be left, 

but a memory theft!