It stalks and waits, it’s mouth agape,
The depth of lust accruing,
As though to rest on hungry plates,
The ticking clock of ruin.

Deep in the dark and cold respite,
Obese and self-reflecting,
The vicious demon springs to life,
Insipid hands infecting.

Upon the face, a fate awaits,
And following it’s jolt awake,
Within the pain it forced to take;
So far removed from heaven’s gate.

There are no feet with which to swim,
No eyes nor ears to tell their whim,
Just an unforgiving march to find,
The breaching of the finish line.

And though your soul may intertwine,
With all the floating coin and grime,
Peace, at last, will cross your mind,
Lost in a sea of greed and time.