Reality. That’s what I can see.
And that’s all there is, here,
outside the lines of concrete,
inside the partition.
The world turns so slowly
when Clocks of sand don’t tick around me.
This city of trees is crowded,
but no one speaks.
Now, they will barely even breathe.
The autumn breeze kills, and caresses these brittle people.
Caring not, for minutes
or the hands that carry them.
Time is already standing still.
Because Autumn is Summer’s punctuation.
A period that separates life and death, hot and cold.
The last grain of sand before the hour glass turns
And when the snow falls, life will pause, like it too, needs to smell the roses.
A short while to reset the clock, and begin again.
One day soon, life will go on.