A spinning clock shuffling society
before your heart my dear and I predict the shot.
Something kills and births synchronously,
until nothing’s left in your chest
like the best empty pockets thief no judge could ever stop.
It beats the clock that to this time ticks again
and tocks once more until your voice becomes too hoarse.
It may happen a few good things end with sangrias softening the blisters of one’s mind.
And worst-case scenario you didn’t drink before the fall
of bottomless societies. You just gobbed all you believed until
hunger turns into thoughts mere inches away from your skull so coarse.
You could’ve left all this behind; you could’ve cooked your own hindsight.
Truth be told, the clock was just counting how long it takes
to shoot yourself on time.