Past 3
When it is past three in the morning
and you see it blinking in red digital numerals,
and when you feel older than death itself,
then you curl at the corners of your life
like that threadbare rug
you sent to the thrift shop
or the mask the devil wears on Sundays.
Fraying your threads
in the dead-end of the sheets
only the sweat of a forgotten dream
binding you to a silent ticking.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
