April 15, 2012
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All the clocks
have stopped working
in this disfunctional house.
They used to sing me a lullaby,
help me escape to my own world.
Their hands would stretch out
to caress the oceanic streams
on my trembling face
and whisper
"Don't worry.
Time is passing.
This will all be gone soon."
And I knew they were right.

But now the hands sit
motionless, unmoving, wrinkled
in his lap
And if they do move,
it's only to lie.
His cracked lips part
into a terrible sneer.
Too unused to be called a grin.
Too terrifying to be called a smile
Time sits
on the tattered yellow sofa-bed,
curled up,
ready for a long wait.
All the clocks
have stopped.

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