The Fabulous Destiny of Marked Accordingly

Wednesday now. Saturday when you come.
Till then, no sense of this. No hope, no doubt.
Locked like an insect in some amber gum
With no connection to the world without,
Squeezed by the hard and empty space
Of tinted nothing till I cannot move,
With thoughts left grasping in the frenzied race
To break the bubble of immobile love.
“Hey, that stuff’ll kill ya!” Not much it won’t.
Instead it holds you exactly where you are,
Allowing no good or bad, no do or don’t,
Trapped like a wheel-spinning road runner or car,
A bug inside some gum, again. Writing something new
Is walking down the escalator leading up to you.