memory, Poetry

Ours for sale

The only thing worth buying
is not really for sale.
Sure, you can rent it for a while
but it eventually goes stale.

On the other hand (the one ticking),
you have in finite stock
to use or lose or watch it trickling,
no matter how secure the lock,

down the drain. Bleeding out
the days, the months, the years
in pain till the moment, no doubt,
all ends in tired, quiet tears.

So spend your time carelessly
on fools and foolish pursuit,
each flower an hour on a tree
before dying to fruit.

We sell what is not ours
but moments, memories and being
to buy trinkets, blinkers and towers;
rust and dust all unseeing.

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