Is it any wonder we read,
lying bare on the mattresses with mouth agape
we read the words on papers, our devices, our screens.
we write e-mails, smiling with our teeth.
day after day, we learn kindness with a cost.
under the stark paper moonlight,
we walk and talk of oh-sweet-nothings
the clocks of this universe must have all struck a lovely hour
are these, those times
in which we know, we are free ?
under the stark paper moonlight,
we see flecks of red and avert our gazes
we are still eyeing the moon, spotless
are these, those times
in which we know, we are free ?
the clocks are rasping,
the time is lost in some pristine black noise
the faces we know, the faces we've loved
those faces we paint, we create, we kiss
we slip beside the hearth,
the coal and the fire,
we will ethically forget these seared labours
once the embers turn dark and tired
but on this stark paper moonlight
no, the colours will come to life
all the ugly, contorted hues you have coated
with your bleeding whites
the words will write themselves
on papers, on devices, on screens
day after day, we must deliver kindness
without a cost, without a cost
the walks in which you blind your vision
your eyes need to watch
the clocks are falling apart,
the time encased is being swiped off.
the seconds hand is groaning underneath the rubble,
the minutes hand is begging to be freed
the hours hand yowls, "how much longer ?"
and if there were a hand for the days, the years, ages-
a crest for all these torturous times
a placement, a land, a home for all these million lives
those, those hands would be scorched too
the clocks do all but hold these pieces
but the hands, they have lived to tell us the tale
of the barrage which has lived for aeons
so can we, now,
believe that we are free ?
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🍉🍉🍉
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