The clock leaks
liquid numbers
saturate my empty page.
Time turns quicker,
slipping backwards.
as I slumber.
The liquid drips thicker.
The world twists,
spinning out of control.
A kaleidoscope of colour.
Bright and bold
leaving me just trying to get a hold.
But the pages are now
too cold damp and old.
Through nicotine
stained fingertips,
they slip.
Memories of a long-forgotten tear.
Trying to hold on
but they just drip, drip, drip
slops of yesteryear.
Over the floor,
puddles I recognise,
little shimmery pools of reflection,
staring back at me with unseen eyes.
My history washes over me,
splashing around me as I run.
into every pour it seeps.
Baked into my skin by the sun
as the clock continues to leak,
dripping more memories,
as I sleep
Thanks for reading
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