3:17

The storm took the power—

silent except for the rain’s drum.

The kitchen clock, cracked glass,

stopped at 3:17 am.

I watch the minute hand hover,

stubborn, tired, refusing to move,

like the night forgot to turn.

This frozen circle mocks me,

its tickless face a cold reminder

that even time can stall

and leave you alone with the dark.

The storm’s breath presses in,

waiting, as if the world’s pulse

paused in a breathless hold,

and I wait too—

between each second, shattered.