Time Ticks Like Death Crawling In My Skin
at 6: 15
twilight,
darkness chokes the neck of day
i hear nothing
i tell the fence, steel and rusty, feeling death itself
on its rails,
that death makes no sound, it is only the time ticking
like the dripping of the water from the gutter
to the rocks
at the foot of the house
it is only its hands that move
round and round my body
feeling the irrationality of my wrist,
the mind closes like a window at night
the thoughts are turned off like the lights of the village
the self loses itself in this darkness
you hear nothing of its insanities
no one talks no one listens
at 8 o'clock in the evening all the eyes pretend that sleep is just nearby
in bed my hands argue
there is something wrong
the feet stamp against themselves at the foot of the bed
there are no changes without a bloodshed
that is still the philosophy of life
this world is not a playground for saints
this world spins upon its own foolishness
at the center is the hub of all selfishness
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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