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leftovers

time is hungry, eating itself tirelessly
morning, noon, and night –
once it eats up a minute, seconds later
it has eaten up the hour and comes back
for seconds, thirds, and fourths –
and right when you think time has
run its final course, eating up your last
breath, your death was just another pinprick
and continues without remorse with everyone else
the next day, eating what’s left in the cabinets and pantries
whatever it wants for itself

___
backdated Post a Day poem for April 2nd, 2017

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