There's a night shift under my pillow,
And the foggy broken clock is ticking.
Green and twisted arrows
Are the remains of my thoughts.
Me, standing apart, in the middle of this nowhere
I'm having dinner with all my days and fears.
But the night shift under my soul is on strike.
Would it be the light of mind?
Or the silence of the eye?
I will never see the shadow of my life
Standing apart in the middle of this nowhere white.
Because the foggy broken time...it is on strike!
Comments about this poem ((Sic!) by Cristian Carcu )
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