the-Forgotten-dead

It is one o'clock And I have been playing Jenga For two years, eight months Twenty-three days, four hours And approximately fifteen Minutes. I slide books from their slots One by one, the teetering tower Becoming more teetering And less towering. All the poetry books are gone, Stored underneath my bed, Because I love reading them at Three thirty in the afternoon, When everyone is doing something But me. One day the wall of books Will topple to the ground, Onto my ashen carpet, for yesterday The apocalypse had taken place While I was washing dishes. I guess I missed it, but luckily The book tower is still standing, And i