is broken, every few seconds
with the shrill sound. Metallic blade grating
against brickwork pathway,
The sound says that he is working.
Death hangs his head heavily in the air
but his work here is never done.
Always another someone.
Always another mothers
daughter or son. His shift goes on.
And on.
And on.
The lights change after dark,
A grimace from a smirk.
These are the hours where the beasts lurk.
Looking for those that are ripened by time,
or the weariness
of the universal pen running out of lines.
These are the hours of which we don’t talk,
they don’t sit on clocks, they don’t stand in wait.
They just pounce on you
when the human discerned hour is late.
But here
these times are never done,
those dreaded hours tick slowly on.
And on.
And on.
The clinging scent,
decay and pain.
Tastes like the gasses
from the grimmest
bowels of hell.
It grips the back of your throat
like a leech
sucking your life
from within its prison cells.
But these smells never fade,
They pervade the brain.
Invading; an insane army
that always marches on.
And on.
And on.
