After Mean Time

I walk along the walls and dumbly stare
at clocks, their times all different, like the wind
had spun with drunken clarity and seen
the roads we pave upon each other. Bare,
the moon throws light towards the earth, its glare
too dark for all but this: that words can mean
many mistakes – and things that had once seemed
so easy are now things we do not dare…
The clocks are spinning. Nothing you can do
will stop this hour, nor I; the paths you drew
within me wear away. After tonight
there will be no more morning. Slowly we die,
each dreaming of the places where we lie.
You blow at candles, not needing the light.


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