There it goes, the time.
I am a wasteland of hours, years and months.
All their accumulated garbage in a great stinking pile
that refuses to decompose,
to become something else, better
A bowl of rice the future can eat.
But it just grows, the past.
Bigger, taller, dirtier, fouler
Sinks deeper into its own slime
Bits and pieces and memories get more indistinguishable
but never recede.
Up here, the air is bright
and the future shimmers like heat.
I would never make it that far though -
this landfill is endless
and I have too many treasures here.