one in number
eyes a flutter…
a creak,
a crack,
a snap,
a mutter.
caution silence
darkened day…
as the frozen minutes stay.
on two,
the stir
the toss
the wrap …
bemoan the worry in its trap.
again the tick,
the mocking tock…
a fervent glance upon the clock.
the third
arrives as all the rest…
a plodding sloth,
a trying test.
at four,
the rise,
the stealthy creep
no more the fallacy of sleep.
and what comes next …
after the four.
a rosy glow across the floor.
a trepid dawn shadows the ticks…
as the five
becomes the six.
a drip,
a drop,
a sip,
a smack,
and ease into the searing black.
a rush of light
exalts the senses…
hastened heartbeat
pulsing tenses.
seven
slips into the fray…
as eight awaits it’s time of day.
nine arrives without surprise,
with temple throb and bleary eyes.
and ten oh ten the time it passes
as tired mule or chilled molasses.
and watch the hand torment the ones
as rigid twins,
as slivered sons.
and onward march towards the mid…
as rumbles from the belly slid.
a slurp,
a gulp,
a bite,
a burp,
as frenzied hands do time usurp.
spin round again to find the one…
looming silent simpleton.
then back to it,
the click and clack,
the beep and buzz,
the wheeze and hack.
head in hands
eyes a bleary…
aching,
crumpled,
drained,
and weary.
shuddering as mind embarks
on the sweet embrace of dark…
deep in soporific slumber
far from tyranny of number.
bliss and dreaming,
caution seeming,
fret and furrow,
panic
streaming.
lids snap upward to the face
as stealthy five empties the space.
and then the horns
the frenzied rush…
while evening spreads it’s legs to push.
sigh
and curses,
halt and verses,
six approaches as it worsens.
metallic quicksand
mires the pace…
as ebb and flow control the race.
then miracle of sweet relief…
across the thresh hold like a thief!
Stagger,
Swagger,
sway and
stumble,
from the belly gripe and grumble.
warm it up to throw it down
as seven comes without a sound.
then snuggle deep into the nest
awash in glow with buttons pressed.
a glassy stare…
a numb despair…
as tick and tock hang in the air.
then eight and nine rush hand in hand
like falling, fragile grains of sand.
and once again does slumber beckon
through every hour,
minute,
second…
ten,
eleven,
onto twelve…
where one and two sit on the shelve.
again to creak,
to crack,
to pray…
for once more ends the longest day.