april 12, 2020

groundhog day

darkness canvases the sky
as if it had been noon all along

as if it had been noon all along
the ticks and tocks of the broken clock
are untrustworthy
the rotation of hands
of worlds
of kind words spoken among handsomely masked strangers
offer no resurrection from repetition

the sun pours across dry skin
from bittersweet medicine that coats her throat
silver bottles
lifted in both agony and celebration
as if one was never quite dislocated from the other
silver linings
a sliver of how bad
or how good
of what could, maybe
to attempt the description of what is unknown
reminisces the rotation of hands
booming in the dusk that creeps
and impossible to perceive until it has lapsed

Then comes the knocking of dawn
the gentle aroma she whispers
a reminder, a sentence
as if they're both the same
and the rest are left to wonder
what isn't?