The clock illuminates incomprehensible numbers
like scattered ancient runes.
They mock me in low, hushed tones,
and I close my eyes to silence them.
They whisper how they're all too willing to share secrets,
and even against my hopes, they'll soon share mine.
So I wait in their crimson glow.
Exposed against the darkness, secrets darker than hope, growl, laugh, cry...
I don't even know why I wait; and just who am I waiting for?
Memories won't reveal nor dreams conceal
what's meant for discovery.
I wait, for time in these numbers mean nothing.
I am nothing.
Just a man with a heavy heart, cluttered head, and too many dreams
resting upon these pillows.