Burning the Clocks

a poem

photo © the author

Withdraw the key,
stop the movement,
muffle the chimes
in cotton wool,
force their hands back
before midnight,
reach inside
the upright coffin,
grasp the gleaming vitals,
they must not
sway our mood,
we are hunkered down
in pity of darkness,
waiting for the zero hour
to strike our hearts
beneath the puny
cut-out stars,
and it’s no use longing
for lighter days,
we missed our chance
and panic-bought
the milkman’s gold…