Sunday, June 29, 2008


Without the loud transmission
or the cybernetic thrall
I’m lulled into submission
by the clock upon the wall;

each tick is like a cannon shot
proclaiming the demise
of one more chance to change the plot
that circumstance supplies.

I hear a low commotion
as it clatters far away
which calls derailed devotion
to forget the ties and stray—

such furrows crenelate my brow
that shadows blind my sight,
I’m blowing out the candle now
it’s time to say goodnight.


ekhosama said...

good night. :) good poem.

rch said...

night :D

Noah the Great said...

Last birthday? I know how it feels to want death, but you have to fight that urge. Unless you're really sure about it. :P