The Hall Clock



When she can’t hold them (the sheer

weight of burdened hypotheses) they

fall, a ticker-tape parade of broken


pregnant with remorse. And even then,

they cling like maggots, feeding

on death, slavering in the frenzy; she

accepts the onslaught as necessary

(even natural), as a part of her due

for past errors, flagellation

working mystical redemption

on her Prometheus soul. She

will allow herself one hour

by the hands of

the hall clock before she expels

the notion; dry-eyed

and encased in armour

she will complete

the month’s living,

counting the moments

in heaps until her

next breakdown.


25 comments on “The Hall Clock

  1. Wow! I’m speechless and wordless! <> you certainly have a way with words

  2. This sounds too familiar. Well done, Mel.

  3. parth893 says:

    That’s so Lovely ❀ Poem . agreed to miss Holly michael.

  4. Eric says:

    πŸ™‚ A Grand Slam!

  5. apoetic1 says:

    …and you don’t even know me… uncanny

  6. What a spectacular poem and photo!

  7. The picture is stunning and your words complimented it perfectly. It reminded me growing up I was always in and out of the hospital from age 1to 18 and it made having normal childhood a bit difficult. On days when I had the blues my mom would always give 20 min to cry it out and than she would say okay enough feeling sorry for yourself and if I wasn’t ready to move she would point out lots of people who were facing larger problems and that always put mine into perspective. She is a good mom.

  8. It’s truly truly unbelievable !

    • melodylowes says:

      πŸ™‚ The first thing that comes to mind is a Calvin and Hobbes quote – “Believe it, lady.” hehe A little cheeky…perhaps I should just say thank you!

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