Killing Minutes

Photo by Alessandro Benassi on Unsplash

If you want to shoot, shoot but don’t you come crawling on mountain tops to spread dots on death-story sentences, the verses are terribly long and the minutes of my poetry are counted by their worth, not by your reading time.
And we shall share a sole glass of wine, because enough is enough, hold each other like lioness intervals of self-cleaning, roll on the carpet among the board-game particles, and for once, being less busy to stop killing ourselves with this minutes diminishing behavior.

What a crime to fast-forward death, and not even notice our actual flowers, that blossom around the year, with no particular reason or season to madafakin love you now.