the yellow clock and the orange


The yellow clock ticks more slowly than the orange

But around both is enveloping blackness,

A letter from some

where

they know

something

I don’t,

Black ink on black paper.

It all ends up the same

Whichever time-frame.

Is it the same conversation

With a different name?

The peas rot more slowly

But the seconds don’t matter

When you know where you’re going.

When you don’t is when the tick is your music

And the silence between your thinking time

To plan the next graceful leap into chaos

And hope for peaceful oblivion.

Sinister shadows of reality hoover at the corners,

Desperate for dust,

squashing the escapist bubble

and it bursts.

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