The dreary night hangs over Port Island City.
A clock strikes 12 with a thunderous clang in the distance,
a boy crashes to the ground from atop a tree,
Hmph gravity is one mean mother.
The somber night is rent in two like a shack in a hurricane.
The backbone of America revel now,
who knew that this dark hour was when happiness flourished?
It’s only 12:02 slurs a man driven mad by drink.
I want to paint the town in beer!
I wish I could pause time and live in this simple, heavenly night
a flash of orange light is all that remains of cat that bolts away.
Aren’t plantains just depressing bananas?
Gangstas desperately attempt to look cool in the club
A lonely glass of water is left by an inattentive patron
Why can’t time just speed up and end this god-forsaken night!?
Did you know that there are actually 25 hours in each day?
An old worn clock, paint peeling with age, has the proof.
Emily would believe me, she’s naive still.
Time is as quick as a cheetah and slow as a snail,
I can’t stop seeing the clash of perspective.
The boy broke his leg on that fall,
he lays there and curse the tree, the clock, and the night.
The nights grows darker then Wes Craven’s films.
Still the clock ticks agonizingly by with sharp, metallic tangs.
Oh just end it already!