a dread that requires detergent so strong
it leaves a mark
white patches
which tells of procrastination.
Sometimes we drag on,
it becomes a tumor
one carries around,
growing bigger and bigger by the day
from benign to fatal.
Sometimes we drag on,
sweeping all anxieties under the carpet
pretending they don't exist
only to find yourself
infested with negativity
opening yet another wound and leaving it unattended.
Sometimes we drag on,
only to realize,
that it doesn't take much
to sweep the dusts towards another direction
to where they belong.
It doesn't take much
when you come to terms that
everything were but earthly affairs
without any cosmic significance
That it doesn't kill to change the water in the vase,
even when the rose is withered
It doesn't take all that much to live with white patches
or to enjoy every breath before leaving --
how ever much (or little ) time to spare.
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