keep staring at the spot
where our clock used to be
before we were robbed of time
(though it’s no longer hot
he still made my camomile tea
not so bad after all, that husband of mine)
because we live in a timeless space
that strangling stress when, oh shit, we’re late!
is replaced by the vaguer unease of not knowing
sure, there are attempts to pick up the pace
every morning, but we still leave it up to fate
to decide when exactly we’re going
I am far too tired for prompts now, but I am now thinking in poetry, so you have my thoughts here.
It’s a funny thing, writing a poem a day. You (well, I) end up with these unrefined hunks of poem that you just don’t have time to polish properly. A bit like beach-combing for semi-precious gems. Or I guess we just hope we will find that huge and perfect pearl, by accident, next time.