Olimpia Sarb


Raw Feelings


I can hear the Clocks.
The one
laid
on the whitish slate of my palm
is a bizarre toy
made of insects
devouring Time.
And the other,
the Clock of the World
deafens my eardrums
with its fluid wings.
A prisoner
in the Memory of the Present,
I feel so strange,
a new-born child and dead
in the very same second
with the soft sun.
Time
smears the Clock nooks
and its condor wings
drag us
into the fluid.

Submitted: Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Edited: Friday, September 27, 2013

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