Riveting ravings

I’m stubborn.
I’m a brick wall.
I’m the lost
and the call.
I’m the wallclock
mounted tall.

The pendulum that swings
to and fro this abyss.
Flailing, so monotone.

And I can almost lip
the word claimed by my lisp.

I can almost taste
the blood in my veins
the spit and the shit,
the wood and the brick
this foreign body is.

I can almost hear
the chiming from the
glass that holds me still,
my din and my kin,
the din of the kin.

But I never mouthed
these words I rain down.

I can almost see
the perpetual leer;
fixed disappointment
in every mirror.
Curving expectations,
feigning dimensions
other than the one

Every other clock
strikes 12, starts again.
My minute hand detests
my second hand no less.


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