Oh with eyes like mine,
It would be so wretched of me to deny them sadness
Let alone despair.
Big, brown sobs
Big brown leaves that fall & fall
& fall like clockwork.
My eyes are clocks, rusted and worrisome.
It is always twenty five to five.
When the moon is at it's highest point in the sky, or even just arching up on its way
past my bathroom window and my reflection
I feel as if I don't need to breathe,
That the clouds, their colours of terrified blues and lavender's bruises
Take it all away from me and I don't have to work for my life anymore.
I just exist in my own time.
My own little world.
The unimaginable safety, the little crack in the face of the clock.
It exists, this space, but you never even knew I was climbing the oak.
I was never on the right path
I was never going to make it out.
My eyes have been adjusting to the light since I was born.