The Hands of a Broken Clock
I stumble towards the sunrise
dragging ghosts that flow through my fingers
clenched fists not enough to maintain a grip,
yet they keep their grip on me.
Staring blankly at the living.
A thousand eyes speak curses
I was never meant to hear.
Where am I to drink,
to quench this thirst
and dwell amongst them?
I divide and merge
with the hands of a broken clock
each thought ticking, creeping
towards time’s end.
As the shadows surround me
I withdraw into myself
there, beneath the overgrowth,
I hear my spirit speak:
Where am I to turn
when nothing makes sense?
I linger along the river,
chasing hope around the bend.
The wind speaks in whispers.
The night crucifies.
Sister moon, forgive me
hold me close in your holy hands.
Keep me from the echo
of all I can’t withstand.
Father, could you save me?
Is this all that I could be?
Through the gaps of dying trees
I hear my mother scream for me
and I wake.
The childhood oak outside my window
sways in the morning wind.
Light pierces through the branches.
Mist glistens like constellations.
And yet
I cannot tell
if I have found my way home
or only dreamed it so.
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