Striking hands have been torn from ticking clocks,
Minutes birth hours and days form into months.
Time stands perfectly still,
As motionless as a stone.
The four walls around me are closing in,
Their smooth edges caressing my elbows,
And their sharp angles nipping my heels.
I have counted every last bump on the ceiling,
With lazy eyes and long breaths.
My breathing is so deep, so shallow, so expansive,
That each inhalation lines my lungs with arctic crystals.
Breaths puff out through visible mist,
And my tongue tastes like winter.
My bed provides some sort of respite from such boredom,
As I melt into the sheets and time disintegrates around me,
Minute hands fondling me under the covers,
Hour hands strewn across the carpet,
And seconds on the sill.
Blazing morns turn into shadowy sunsets without a moment’s notice,
There is no difference here between a dusk or a dawn.
I hope to no God that there will be some sort of end to this,
Some sort of rescue from my dull imprisonment,
But as I lie in wait and bide my time,
No clock will aid me.
The Beautiful Space-