It’s getting late
Time and tide
waits
for no man.
She watches the minute hand
slice through the dense vapour
of her bated breath —
sword drawn,
to strike at twelve —
The sword cuts.
Clean.
The minute hand makes
its first piercing thrust
at midnight —
her panic,
unabated by Bach.
He’s not back yet
Time and tide
waits
for no man.
She sees
a hologram of him,
tarrying,
in the backseat of a cab —
and sobs along with the Mass
in B minor.
Rhyme and ride
waits
for no man.
[Photo Source: Pexels]
An experimental piece including some science fiction elements. Tell me what you think!
If you enjoyed this poem, you may also be interested in The Dream of Goodbyes.
❤️
