Slowburn

It starts and stops in little things

And as we age and lose desire, the middle line starts to blur

It slowburns to carelessness

The middle man who sinks to stay in grace

Friend to all—Loyal to none

But before I walk that rope I'll hang from it

So instead I'll bury them

Bring hammers to heads

Plant flowers on their skulls like there was nothing ever there

Friend to all—Loyal to none

But before I walk that rope I'll hang from it

My choice: Your time to disappear