The clock does not tick, it mocks.
In waiting, each second drags its heels
like a child forced to apologize.
In grief, the same seconds sprint,
thieves running with your breath in their hands.
In boredom, minutes swell like tumors,
pressing against the ribs of the day
until breathing feels like labor.
In fear, time hunches over,
counting its steps like a prisoner,
eyes fixed on the next corner
where something unseen waits to strike.
And still the wheel turns,
mockery polished smooth by repetition.
We clutch at hours like pearls,
only to find they dissolve into dust.
Time does not care.
It will limp when we need it to run.
It will run when we beg it to stop.
It will laugh in both directions,
knowing it was never ours to hold.
We are only borrowed breath,
ticking inside borrowed lungs,
waiting for the hand that winds the world
to close the circle for the last time.
These words belong to the Dark Psalter, a collection of laments written in shadow. Continue reading the full series here.
In Luminance 