3:43
It’s late
But no clock ticks.
It rains
outside, and nothing’s drenched.
Fan spins
But it’s quiet.
Soaked in beautiful silence.
In endless time,
In rushing stillness.
An impulsive contemplation
Sorts floating thoughts
into words, into history
at 3.43.
—
If only I could pick out parts of me I want to preserve, and keep them in a jar.
Aizat said,
May 12, 2009 at 11:17 am
It’s early
The clock is ticking slowly.
it never rains
Some people feel it, others just get wet.
Fan stops
But it’s still loud
The silence of outer space never seemed more loud to me.
Out of syncopated time
Out of uncertain certainty
A calculated perception
Distorts wandering thoughts
Into poetry, of dead romantics
at 4.17
mubbles said,
May 12, 2009 at 11:16 pm
(:
Interesting re-play of words!