The sickle of time’s most invested agent
haunts the shadows, and never ceases.
As I look into my lover’s eyes,
I see the hands of time ticking up and around,
Like inverted sex, on an unholy matrimonious bed
The youth flood the streets with signs screaming in revolt,
Old men push buttons and young men die,
While the newborn’s eyes are pierced by the light of death
And every second is a token from the reaper,
His economy running on lost opportunity,
Has given us the most unsolvable of riddles.
The sphinx was never the problem,
It was the king.
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