What do you do
when the hands of the clock
become tiny swords?
When each tick,
second, and minute,
cuts you a little deeper…
is it death by a
thousand hours (even more?)
of rumination,
contemplation,
and the ceaseless spinning,
measured in clicks,
of the timekeeper’s
everkeen loyalty
to carved memories
of pain and death?
There’s no distraction here;
I just keep thinking.
It’s deep,
because the blood
has pooled
since that hour and minute
swung low
and cut me in two.
©️ 2019.