Whisper softly.
The sound of the clock tends to injure my brain
nefarious cracks in the chrome
the punctuated ticking driving me insane, to the edge
of tomorrow’s landing, knowing full well I will most likely fall
on my feet, as I most often do, when push
comes to shove.
I carry time in my back pocket
like a distant memory
or a mistress,
a companion
hoping it will prop me up and cushion the fall,
but as day passes the torch to moonlight,
I’ve become no more than shriveled branches
suspended from a shrunken tree trunk
unable to defy the pull of gravity.
I almost wish for yesterday to be erased,
for mistakes to be blurred
and missteps retraced,
a protracted way to prolong the final expiration date,
knowing time is not inclined to wait,
until then, may I be encased in the velvet of poetry,
entangled in its web, enamored of words embedded
on the page,
lurking in my phone,
sharp, acerbic,
timeless words,
just looking for a home.
© Connie Song 2023. All Rights Reserved.
