Time, itself, is short: futile.
Cast in shadow of savage thieves
Twisting and pushing through the air
One day we wake up old.
New things in our place:
Brittle plastic, tethered to pathetic.
The world is blaring some inane advice through the speaker:
A demon spy at the back door
babbling, blathering, bleak lies of taste
To make sure we don’t run out of our supply-
A refill slipped and gliding under the door, unnoticed:
Our daily allotment-