The clock hands are knives
and their rotation peels my skin
much like a deer dragged back
from nowhere to be food
in someone’s freezer by the morning.
I have no illusions about what I am
to them just a pair of hands
that know the flow of things,
anything beyond that is an unprofessional
gripe of laziness or self importance.
At least, that’s what they teach you
in the videos with the happy
narrator and bright colors
I’ve never seen on the clearest days.
I want to decide where I go
no longer guided by the swords
of a game whose rules have never
made anything fair.
To live in my own world,
and escape from all the rest
where the music is perfect
and waking up early
is something done
when it becomes a dream
to see the rising sun.
We can wallow in the light
while all the rest remain
insane and love their pain,
where all the time they gave
and death is just the same.

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