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Pain of Night

A night marked by poles of red light.

Angular figures, a clock: 11.44.

It is always this time; red figures on a table;

reminding the mind – again.

This is life – never more alone than now;

tiredness so profound the mind is separate

from wearied frame; an enfeebled entity

adrift on an uncharted course.

Tick tock.  It watches; it knows;

torture of night bleeding to day;

thoughts twisted on a spindle,

suspended to swing unhurried,


threads of reason unravelling,

a pulse of light in the darkness


One thought to “Pain of Night”

  1. And so it is with mankind, glued to the face of a clock watching time going, time that is neither understood nor controlled! You’ve caught the painfulness of it, truly John, that ‘spindle’ of thought that just won’t stop.

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