A November, disjointed.
A clock without hands keeps time without seconds—
Moments crawl by like bubbles in a vat of molasses,
'Till they break through the surface with sighs of ecstasy
And die a quick death in the morning air— Ah, Ah, Ah
A door opens, shuts.
A breeze whispers softly and disintegrates.
We're in a vacuum filled with air.
We die with our pens scrawling scribbles on a page,
Our breaths sighs of boredom— Ah, Ah, Ah
David Poore is currently a student working toward a degree in Creative Writing. He has previously published his poetry on a number of websites.
Alternative Reality Web Zine: ISSN# 1559-3037
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