The clock presents a series of blurred photographs, still life captured in the amber of quiet moments.
Day’s raw emotions have yet to be frayed; the taste of decline, absent from its tongue.
No one has yet tasted a sugarcoated bullet. Weepers and rough sleepers are still dreaming and don’t yet possess faces looking like they’ve been carved out by knives.
In these quiet moments, all you can hear is a faint ringing in early morning’s ears, a tinnitus of distant sirens.
Cemetery lawns are still dewy and green, unstained by sadness.
Soon, there’ll be car horns and alarms. A rush hour splatter of brake lights Jackson Pollock’ed across highways and boulevards.
Dogs will howl, babies will cry.
For now, it is still too early for one to witness their reflection in morning’s sunrise mirror.
But the hour will soon arrive.