The Clock

Sami Qureshi

She sits silently
in a room
as she listens
for the ticking of the clock
sits at a table scattered with dusty puzzle pieces
she pokes them occasionally with her wrinkled forefinger
sometimes she frowns
the confusion comes and goes
she goes with it now
the fight worn out of her
staring out of the window
her minds eye displays a different scene
a different time
when clarity wasn’t an illicit lover
stealing occasional moments
and her days moved past so quickly
there was no time to sit
and savor
now all that she can do
is sit silently
in a room
and listen for the clock

*artwork by sami qureshi

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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