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time.
Something so precious to the world we live in. Worn like adornments for our bodies. Religiously, like a catholic with a rosary. Life past solely through the glass hands of the crystal clocks strapped to our wrists like embellished handcuffs.
And it's all we've ever known, born into anxiety, taught thoughts consumed by each descent down by a weighted hand.
time.
A bomb ticking against the palpable silence hushed over a society caused by grief and sorrow before the time cards chime to clock in again. Counting the passing memories and woes of life like a boring film whose climax is only reached when it ends. When digits are calculated by the tips of fingers; digits. To count down the minutes close the veil is to be lifted. The seconds till, those seconds are finally up. Yet somehow still unbeknownst to us how fast we fell into a dark slumber with what eyes we thought were wide open.
time.
How do we coax the time to still.
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Silence
I don’t remember the day the world ended. But I do remember the day I noticed. That photo was it, but I did not know what it meant until I sat in my darkened bathroom, staring at the newly developed film. The street was neither empty, nor abandoned. It was dead. The colours of the flowers wrapped in that red ribbon caught my eye, and as I crouched to take that photo, I could hear only the lonely silence of a graveyard after dark.
By Alexander McEvoy6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
"Counting the passing memories and woes of life like a boring film whose climax is only reached when it ends." was the most loved part in your poem. Brilliant! Life experience in a creative manner!!! I subscribed you to read your new ones and if you wish you can subscribe me as well.🙂🙂🙂