Poetry

A Question of Time

I feel sick
Even my name makes me sick
Each syllable a tick 
Alluding to something that should not exist
And my hands
They are juxtaposed
One warmed from the heat of the sun
The other lying away from it
Cold, dripping of blood
I wonder
How long can I sit here?
How long until my reality dissolves into dreams and my wrist is no longer bleeding?
How long until I have found my call?
And the drip, drip, dripping of blood
Has hauled me away and dumped me in a casket
Waiting for me to lose consciousness
Never waking me from my dream
How long, I ask, how long?

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