When the Heart Races the Clock

Friendship

When the Heart Races the Clock
 
The world shrinks to a single hallway—
white walls breathing in rhythm with my chest,
each inhale a gasp of winter air,
each exhale a sigh that thins the glass of my throat.
 
A sudden tide surges from the hollow of my ribs,
white‑knuckled waves crashing against the ribscage,
and my thoughts scatter like startled birds
against a sky that has forgotten how to be blue.
 
My hands tremble, a nervous violin,
plucking the tight‑rope of nerves that hum
with a frequency only the nervous system can hear:
a frantic Morse code—dot, dash, panic—
signaling an emergency that no one else can see.
 
The clock on the wall ticks a frantic metronome,
its ticking a drumbeat in a war I never enlisted,
while the walls close in, inches shrinking
to the size of a postage stamp stamped with “Urgent.”
 
I am both the storm and the ship,
the lightning that splits the night and the hull that shivers,
my heartbeat a drum that threatens to break
the ribcage's fragile glass.
Every breath feels like a borrowed moment,
each one a fragile bargain with the air.
 
I try to name the sensation—
“panic,” a word too calm for the hurricane inside,
a polite handshake with a raging beast.
Yet, in the middle of the gale, a whisper
pierces the roar: hold.
 
I anchor myself to a single word,
to the feel of the floor beneath my shoes,
to the faint, metallic taste of my own tongue,
to the rhythm of a distant, steady breath.
 
And slowly, the tide recedes, pulling
its frothy fingers from my throat,
the walls expand, the hallway widens,
the clock resumes its ordinary tick,
the storm becomes just a memory
of clouds that have already passed.
 
In the afterglow, I sit—still shaking,
still breathing, still alive,
a fragile ship moored in quiet harbor,
waiting, patient, for the next tide to rise.
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Comments +

Comments5

  • orchidee

    Good write F.

    • Friendship

      Thank you,orchidee.I appreciate your time to read my poem.

    • sorenbarrett

      A hurricane indeed the question becomes cat one, two, three, four or five. The fear is always a five where nothing survives and inner tornadoes take off roofs and carry people away. It is hard to breath in a hurricane the air pressure changes and one has to worry about flying objects. Tidal surge also a problem where one could drown. They say seek safe shelter before it hits but before weather forecasting how would one know? Oh if one could only forecast the panic. A vivid imagery is presented in this poem tying the two together. "White knuckled waves" also noted in the lines of tide receding and pulling finger from one's throat. A marvelous description of such attacks. This poem presents the whole cycle from beginning to end of the storm. Very nice

      • Friendship

        Thank you, SorenBarrett.I appreciate your time to read my poem. and providing feedback, which I greatly value. I wish you a great day.

        • sorenbarrett

          You are most welcome Friendship

        • Tristan Robert Lange

          Friendship, this is vividly rendered and emotionally exact. The storm imagery, the tightening space, and that quiet act of holding on all work together beautifully. It captures panic without dramatizing it, and recovery without pretending it’s simple. Strong, compassionate work. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦‍⬛

          • Friendship

            Thank you.Tristan.I appreciate your time to read my poem and providing feedback, which I greatly value. My dear friend, you've got it, a panic and anxiety attack. I wish you a great day.

            • Tristan Robert Lange

              Indeed. Having had many of them, that came across very clear to me in your poem, my friend. A powerful piece, my friend. You are most welcome. You too!

            • Paul Bell

              Why have you got a picture of me on a Monday morning.
              Every sailor I would imagine respects the sea, to not surely would be fatal.
              I suppose at some point every sailor is going to get caught out, the calm sea now turning in anger.
              Always liked the Mary Celeste story till the theorists spoiled it.

              • Friendship

                Thank you, Paul..I appreciate your time to read my poem, which I greatly value. I wish you a great day.

              • Jerry Reynolds

                A fine write, Friendship.

                • Friendship

                  Thank you, Jerry.I appreciate your time to read my poem, which I greatly value. I wish you a great day.



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