Roost her

Wake up, it said, Wake up, sharply

it snapped,

and it was still not in focus.

Rap, rap, rap, tapping, with the tip of the finger

slapping the face of the stoic timepiece.

Do you see-it pointed. I know-all I could muster out

by feeble lungs and tight lipped projections.

Don’t say I did not tell you so-it did not say

this time.

What have you been doing-the prod grew hotter-

All this time

On the other hand, a second time,

I remember planning.

That is not doing.

It is undoing and a voiding and be

holden-Too long, it melts or turns bad.

You never told me that, I told it.

You cannot let go so soon-
if you give up the only thing

that is yours, what will you be left with, 

it asks of me.

Generous, life has given and taken.
Will there be enough time to finish?

No. That was not the point of it all.

Didn’t you notice that endings are all the same,

it mused from the other side. 

It noticed the out lines, the greys, the bones and shade, similarly,

How can you sleep at such a time when dreams are dying off

at such a rapid rate like honey bees and polar bears.

How can you hide your head in plain daylight?

It was too bright and distracting to look up around,

garish and nightmarish, blinding.

Are they all zombies?

It is terrifying.

It is the same direction, to a point

out of focus
until it has been heard from inside. 

Artwork By Kalki (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.