2:55

Five vials of hope before 2:55, An epinephrine Saturday feast After midday, preventing time to arrive Again, to stall the curse at least. The single drop of tear tells it all, I guess I've seen it coming. And it did, but very stealthily, the fall Disguised in serene eyes staring. Broken voices of 2:55 and hence A glass of water, a pat on the shoulder, Paper works, the waiting, querying the sense Reduced to an atheist's prayer. The chaos ceased, all quiet on the front. The war is lost; not a dream did survive. Life is a poem that is so blunt, All gone, after midday at 2:55.