Grow

Closed gateway.
Empty halls are the fluorescent smell of April's heat.
I am enclosed, and trapped in the last minutes of my time machine.
Tick tick before midnight.
Tick tick before the enhanced responsibility of the ultraviolet ray of the upcoming winter.

Closed wormhole.
The buzzing sound of the cooling air is the music of my nostalgic fever tonight.
I am locked, and cornered in the last stanzas of my Neverland.
Tock tock before the faded constellation.
Tock tock before the unfastened seat belt of this shipwreck-like cadillac.

Closed casket.
The wrinkly texture of the wall is the remaining montage of the twenties.
I am blinded, and freed in the middle of the deserted land of my own paintings.
Tick tock before the final glazing.
Tick tock before the illuminating lifetime beneath my own shielded moving chiaroscuro shading.