Yearning for a much simpler time,
yet the ticking clock only stops,
when the overlord behemoth's thumb,
presses the languid clicker at the top.

Churning are these guts of mine,
bones ground to juice that flops,
a remainder of all things in sum,
mass bodily equations; divide, drop.

Burning are high stakes of thine,
the living inferno never, ever stops,
bullet holes spew from a smoking gun,
a blue prison; is all you'll ever cop.

Returning to the scene of the crime;
are the leopard gecko's slimeball spots,
no contrived camouflage under the sun,
could disguise what you haven't got.
...