Yawning into the long night
Minutes and hours ~
tick, tick, tick past
Sitting ~ pacing ~ huddled in bed
Jagged edges of past and future claw inside a mind
Present moments in time too raw, too real
In the too dark, too quiet night ~
Through scrabbling, scratching bright noisy day
hours and hours slow and crawl
Innocent clock sitting high on a wall
Moments tick past one after the other
Hope whispers softly in open spaces of time.
“When you have lost hope, you have lost everyting. And when you think
all is lost, when all is dire and bleak, there is always hope.”
~Pittacus Lore, I Am Number Four
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