The Times

Phone cord dangling as of 

Sand off the grain 

In the ocean

In this mirror

I sit

Drowning doubts and insecurities

With the pointed tip 

Of the object mounted for the parasite

Rotating across degree sectors

Never known to beings

Man yet woman nor even 

The ones who reach purposeful for life

As it tells them to own every second

Of their seemingly encompassing present

Like the wrapped ones they pray for on the blazing skylines

Yes those revolutionary minds

With capabilities that stretch the stratosphere

Can comprehend the presumable

destination of my cardiac beat making appointments with specialists to replenish my inner drive and serving of a world that caters to those who promote unfathomable policies amongst our creators of a potential post development society

One that blooms with the scent of creativity deserted from world pressure of pre contemporary societies deserted from the world of solitary currency infatuated curators.