The Click, Clock
of the ticking man
Knock, Knocks
Upon my hands.

Waiting, when
Will I write
The lines then?
Will I write?

It’s time
Running shorter
And mine
Growing longer,

In the dusk
Of books lust-
ing call.

The blood
Of the studious,
The rood

Of the ones
Who chose
This, it comes,
With rows

Of lines
To write.
And lessening time
To fight.



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