Notice of Expiration
By Peter Scott
Sick to my stomach
The days mesh
In a pattern
Along with the night
Internally I am set only
Inches away from
The burst
Oh yet what a closing
Off with a bang
Subtly do I sit
Teetering side to side leaning
My weight off
Over sweet oblivion
Ought they know?
I think not
Dressed from shoe to cap
Heading to the church
Wholly holy
For not a religion could captivate
Still I tried
Much too late
Scars quicken as
I sit
I stand
Close is the feeling wrought
Might they have foretold
Would I be standing still?
You tell me
While the earth weeps
Another creation
Bound in the soil
Small and insignificant
Mighty only in me
But I didn't want it
She can have it
For these seeds aren't worth planting.
