You may think that time can wait
For your surly suicide state.
But what is that if not rot,
Festered foul and come to dot
That once 360 degree psyche
Now battered blue and lost at sea.
Now welcome your forebears’ faces
Ghostlike. Blame these sepulchral spaces.
Space is a bottomless well, free fall hope.
Time is the length of a noosed rope.