Robbed of time

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.

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