Sunday Night

 

Sitting at the same desk

In a new room, the wait

Remains the same. Sirens

Echo in the night’s expanse

 

Of absence. Wordlessly

The world maneuvers itself

In our direction, alteration

Only in the mind. Constant

 

Movement of the clock

Tick tock tick tock always

the sound weight of solitude.

This is it; minutes hounded by minutes,

 

Seconds snapping their  lesser infinities

hours barking like massifs, their bellies

Swollen in hunger, alone and mourning

their separation from existence.

 

And yet. There is always

Light somewhere in the universe—

A cold comfort in darkness. I

Believe in things that are invisible

 

To myself. I sing a song of incomplete

Happiness. An invention of longing,

As real as the sounds disallowed.

 

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