Blending into the furniture

…and no nearer to thee, from what I can see
the future’s receding fast,
the past’s just a trap that claps me in irons made
from chains interlinked made to last.

If the sun burns the sight from my gaze and the dew on the ground of the days of my days starts to evaporate, will the state of my being become the unstate of not seeing or is unseeing a state of not being.

Ah,
thank goodness for crayons to colour me blue
without the said crayons what else would I do,
but fade.

..and no nearer as yet or as yet is not ready to be,
the internal clock winds slowly away and
slowly as slowly as slowly as what I can see
this is the tickaway of the being in me.

© 2015, John Smallshaw.