On the clock’s face

The hands on the clock
slowly orbit the pale, dull face,
seemingly unaware

that the snow brought
a chill (or
at least a hint.)

The sun almost
shone as babies blinked,
staring at nothing

a general malaise that
lay beneath bubbles and
banana pudding breath.

Yes
snow covers the grass
and

a cold chill echoes through
the last

of a winter storm that turned whatever
we had planned black and cold,

echoes.

Depression cries out
through the seemingly endless black
(where noise blinds us,
while

not so long ago
this all made sense).

Amid the senselessness
of another terrifying flash
of lightning –
of the fury

that flares for an instant
then recedes

to background noise – we
find solitude, short

of understanding.