Narcotic Minutes

A poem to watch the minutes drip.

Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash

Because the clock on the wall keeps ticking away.
Dully,
Rhythmically,
like an amputee on painkillers.
Painfully numb.
Time is the poor man’s antidote to despair.
Strangely addicted to narcotic minutes.
Seconds on steroids and opioid days.
Counting down the minutes,
Following the gentle sway of the pendulum,
As grandfather clock sings,
Nostalgia into existence.

Tick…Tock…
Subdued and hypnotized by the illusion,
That this will all be over soon.