It’s a quarter to cremation
it’s half past life
and the longer I remain here
the further I float,
with my eyes open wide
my beck becomes a river
white and purging my scarred skin
from any traces of a lucid life,
and the river becomes a lake
and the lake becomes the sea,
and freshwater fish turns salty
in this my reality,
where the quarter bell tolls
just in time.
