In the dark about after hours,
and what happens when the minutes run out
with that last second on hand,
we sit in a circle holding hands
waiting for an off-guard spirit to drunkenly blurt something out.
If ever there was a chance,
you’d think your loved ones would give you a sign.
With the clocks ticking down, whether grandfather or digital, putting them back is an autumnal dance.
Me personally I’d love to hear from that mother of mine.
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Author: aprettykettleofpoetry
