An old purse sprawled by the clock
Tick Tock, a barred blade unlike the tireless hands
With mere dust flakes on my dial to puff.
It's tough, a withered flux to repel the vexing away,
With an empathetic moist stick in the middle to talk.
A lock, keyed in but too dubious to crack
With a clumsy name on its frown, blundered in the dark.
"Embark," the pen idle from ages,
Says with pounds of blood lying under its beak.
"Speak"; the restless smudges on my lens
Would sneeze every drop of tear but hope.
Cope, and I would put them off, semi-wrapped
Swallowing every blue gut painted on my wall.
After all, the alluring, asserting voice from the black
Would love to smear my despair with her charades of love.
Something that I wrote last September, the last lines telling why I could never complete it till now.
