time can be a penitentiary depending on who sets the clock

mine has been flashing 12:00 for weeks since the power went out

my skin is flushed from the walk and my scars show the map of life

criss crossed reminders of beatings, external and internal

some still weep as the lonesome afternoon drifts by lazily

the flashing digits remind me that this trip isn’t over by a long shot

part of me wants rip the damned thing off the wall and toss it

or ram my fist through the smug plastic face to feel the tearing

it isn’t the clock, it isn’t the headache in my skull either

it is this burning feeling deep down inside threatening to flare

time can be a penitentiary, depending who sets the clock

mine is flashing triple sixes in the negative space around 12:00