The Clock Nears Twelve O'Clock
Two Minutes.
Till Midnight.
A man sat by
as a house
burned down
a city away.
Blood was spilled.
On the land where
the Dome stood.
The man heard
the screams
of the Bank.
One Minute Left.
Till Midnight.
He places a mug
pouring coffee.
As he sits down
his elbow hits
the maple jar
sending it
to the floor.
He sighs,
staring at
the rose he got
from the land
of scholars
— where books and
knowledge was
passed around.
Its colour faded,
its vase — beautiful pottery
and calligraphy —
cracked and — the
man tries
to keep them
beautiful.
And in the empty house,
the moon peers through.
Ten seconds left.
Till Midnight.
