Bleak Hours by Adam White, poet

Time keeps arresting itself.
Each second delivering
Some new, humanising stroke
Of the sharp, satirising blade.

How should the next turn come?
The trilling of the telephone,
The despairing knock at the door,
The bad news rushing on undelayed.

Little agonies for me to swim through.
I'm left unsure what platitude to deliver,
Since (uncommonly) the pain is not my own.
You would think I'd be well versed.

Weeping over the driest gears,
I force sympathetic eyes to beam
And appreciate the run of bad luck
With which you seem to be cursed.

Black streaks flit through the air.
You deliver hurtful rhetoric,
Unreasonable blame strikes hot,
Sleep will follow for too tired minds.

Ignorant, wet noses search,
Blind to this toxic reality.
Kibble spills, tingling in to a bowl,
Happy, your wide mouths grind.

Posted for One Shot Wednesday at http://www.onestoppoetry.com
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