Mr. Eons came to sit with me for tea
I confessed to him that I feel like he’s always there
Mr Eons shook his head and said, ‘Always, there is a sad melody that underpins the webs i weave’
‘I don’t really like tea’ I told him in between the tocks of the ticking clock
I turned to look Mr. Eons in his many eyes, ‘why do you never leave, always harvesting the flies in me! If i had buttetflies it would be a sign of motion. But here I sit. Here I waste away, and yet, I can see it in your eyes, it is not a waste when there is no waste to be!’
‘It is true, my friend’ started he, ‘you’re not even worthy of being waste, which is a waste you see. In your space another could be, but alas here you are, that I surely see.’
And the clock ticked, the wallpaper peeled
And his lips sipped and his legs slowly crept
And I cried and begged for breath untreacled
Mr. Eons wrapped himself around me
My teeth chattered in the dark
And my ears picked up the melody
as he dragged me into the darkest periphery