Broken Time In Pieces

Time passed away in the dark, the bedside clock fell silent it was never much of a talker. Below the curtained window snow had numbed the night, ill at ease my body stretched as if seeking a way out of its mind a place it inhabits when there is only one room, to turn around in. Did the clock die on the tic or the toc? These are the sort of questions to struggle with when it's too early to actually struggle. Switched on the lamp - the one in my head. Accumulations of amputated dreams wriggled back into the shadows. I shake the clock some residual moments slipped limply through cold fingers. When the light freezes, when dawn breaks its brittle shell, snow humps (so far unseen), will resemble the many recumbent hours, but of course there's no way to measure those hours now. It could be days before the snow melts or until eyes unstick themselves from all this rumpled mess of being.