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An End to Our Thrumming


All clocks have stopped their thrumming, the creatures slink across the threads of redness, not enough violins, too much violence breathing to the drum of our failing love.

This, our dust, is not settling as it should, coating the skies with the scourge of loathing, placing the truth lower than the ashen claws of discourse, opening the metal gate to blindness and dismay.

Time is not needed at present, it’s ticking, deaf to our tally, unheard prayers radiating, pouring over the shadowy oceans and seas, clocks without hands... or anything worth keeping.

© 2010 by mark prime


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