living by the minute

The big hand strikes six.

My feet, no need to remain planted,

my hands, following the first demand,

diving into my pocket, granting -

my hourly wish.

-

Locked tin in a light blue house,

The Talking Box veers his head,

opens his mouth,

a wave of death across his breath.

-

Oh how i loved

myself before,

Oh how i still long

to be restored.

-

I tell myself this will be the last,

a lie passed more than days,

to build a bridge that will let me walk

over the ridge without a squawk,

but still another lie been passed

for a habit that will always last.