The Second Hand

The ceiling’s white, a vast expanse,

where sleep refused to settle down.

Each passing minute, a slow trance,

the only noise in this hushed town.

A plastic casing, cheap and stark,

the clock upon the mantel gleams.

It carves a path into the dark,

and shatters all my hopeful dreams.

Tick. Tock. A hollow, brittle sound,

that counts the moments I can’t keep.

Upon this solitary ground,

while all the other people sleep.

The second hand, a metal dart,

that jabs the silence, one by one.

It tears the quiet world apart,

until the waking has begun.