Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Time Is Twelve Minutes To Seven

The time is twelve minutes to seven,
war is rumbling under the Earth,
and I am being pulled from Heaven,
to settle down into some kind of hell.

I stare from my sheets at a crashing, cosmic ocean,
the waves are weary but wonderful,
slowly springing to life as the sun follows suit,
but I know it is only ever occasional,
never knowing how much I need to stay in this state.

My pretty preciosa,
sapphires and sweet skies in her eyes,
she is all I think about as war breaks out,
and the government falls to pieces,
because I’m selfish,
self absorbed,
and too enchanted to take in life around me.

How could the moon be so bright last night?
How could she have been so settled in my arms,
but breaking from my grasp when The Today Programme starts?
How can real life go on,
when she wakes up,
and wrecks me by looking so beautiful?

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