Clocks: A poem

A clock melts in the midst of subdued chaos
Caragh McErlean/Senior Staff

I fell over at half past two.


Near a candle, some matches, and wax on a drawer

Through open curtains, rays shine through

Words in a pile, shut away for later days

But later days would have to be tomorrow

Tomorrow and today.

The ticks of the clock wander.

They mock me.


I blurred out at a quarter past four.

Black lines are indiscriminately spread wilder than wrist veins

Powdered ability flanks trailing footprints while

Hours fuzz daringly, like a peach casually resting on my tongue

And pictures blur out.

An orange mixed pink dimness takes a watery spread outside my window

No match for the once-brilliant, piercing rays a few hours back

And my lenses adjust to focus on scattered pencil shavings

They surround me.


I re-entered reality at half past nine.


Now, unrecognizable footprints lead back to sanguinity with

Less light, more illumination.

Lies. It is simply dark. Sanguinity is but a cover.

Olfaction is alive and the smells

Of daisies among confusion

Meander with me. Past discoloration.

Past incongruity.

Past completion.

They revive me.

Hours marathon, and suddenly,


It’s five minutes to midnight.


I feel the fumes grazing the tip of my skin

From the cigarette I had thought I put out

Jutting out just below my weary brows

Drooping. Settling. Stalling — down through my back,

Up into the legs of my faded pants, and I realize,

Those cheetah stripes are simply incomparable

To the nothingness from which darkness sweeps, and time —


Sweeps through. Seeps through.


I stopped at twelve on the dot.

Contact Sandhya Kannan at [email protected].