To drift

All my days have numbers,

and every day is numbered –

if I give each day a number.

Each second follows minute,

every minute follows hour,

the numbers don’t get smaller

I just rattle in my shell;

a shell inside a shell,

Like a Russian doll of shells.

My defence is superficial

to the shell that is my skin,

then the shell that was a person

can be found somewhere inside.

My feet are tied by gravity.

my lifespan’s tied by telomeres,

my future’s tied to tealeaves

and every day is numbered –  

if I give each day a number.

If I give each day a number

it will take away the day.

Wherever I might find myself:

in house in car in work;

I’m a Russian doll of empty,

rattling in a shell.

And I list ninety-seven reasons

to despise all human nature

but never feel the urge to

invent three to make a hundred.