If I turn back the hands on a clock
it changes nothing, lately.
Nothing really said to my face.
No good-byes at least.
What is the rest of this then?
Ticking, talking of ideas I don’t
comprehend or understand?
Ticking, walking down the same path
with more ferocity, less inherent guilt?
Ticking, shocking that all along
I was worse than the measure of
all these “sins” and confessions.
Ticking, locking myself inside and waiting
Armageddon or Apocalypse.
