Drumbeats

One cannot break free from the morning song that breaks the spirit. To the screech of the bitter and sour voice, I hear what I hope to not understand. But I do…. It is the mother tongue that tried to steal my breath.

The very tone that confirms I am wrong and they are right. The black and white sides set in relentless fabric. A stark cage formed around obedience.

When agreement meant honoring the end game, when listening became survival, when begrudging alignment meant keeping hope that, one day, there will be oxygen.

But when?

When was escape from the same hostile drumbeats going to stop? When were their voices going to stop drowning out mine?

When, when, when?

Looking inside the cabin. I see a clock. A mid-century clock with spears that stood the test of disruption and turbulence. Bonds that bind were filled with enduring viruses that spurned softness. I soon built a mask to hide the essence, the one who cries, just trying not to die.

I wondered when the minute hand would move as I stared at the perpetual seconds hand. Each second was quick, they said. But it moved at a pace like lava in a volcano to serve as a signal.

Brewing, congealing, invasive heartbeats that knew eruption was just a matter of time.

Tick tock, tick tock

The clock that is a relic in my mind

Only to be alive in my eyes

I cannot hold in the endless pause

Without air

The seconds hand that pounded without hope

The hour passed but the inevitable day remained

Ripped steel toe boots filled the jagged floor

Soles dripping with famished vomit

Searching for rest in tarnished spaces

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash