the clock will run out

by mistersoto

a worn sentiment
transmitted, but
a truth –
the clock will run out
before you can conclude
your battles
or wave the flag
of a glory garnered
evaporated
within the borderlands
of imagination
and histories hallmarked
with violent caress
negating the babe’s head
the curvature
of the moon’s appearance
after concluding an orbit
the remnants of evidence
out there
in a seepage of blood
pooling and
held within the outstretched palm
of a desert’s aridity
this blood
baptising your next page
and what after?
a transmission counting down
then zeroed
behind you

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