after midnight


Broken clocks can’t tell time.
Meaningless hands move through contrived seconds.
It is all a creation of the mind.

Father is dead.
Maybe he never existed.
No, not maybe. There is no father.

The sun returns in cycles.
No hands necessary.
Birds chirp as the horizon brightens

The worms have already eaten.
Early is relative to our needs.
We need more sunrises.

We need more…

© zaji, 2016

leave a thought

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

error: Content is protected !!
%d bloggers like this:
Malcare WordPress Security