The hours stack like brittle glass
Each one trembling
Under its own weight
The world flickers
At the edges
A film reel slipping
Off its track
Shadows move first
Then light
Then whatever I am
In between
My thoughts wander
Without asking permission
Drifting through old rooms
I swore I’d locked
Touching memories
I meant to bury
Under cleaner snow
The mirror doesn’t argue anymore
It just watches
Patient
As if waiting for me
To remember
Which version of myself
I left behind
On day three
Or five
Or seven
Still
I keep going
A quiet pulse
In a body made of static
Counting the days
Like beads on a rosary
Hoping that somewhere
Between now
And whatever comes next
Sleep will find me
And call me
By my real name
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Author:
Anthony Hanible (
Online) - Published: April 4th, 2026 04:21
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 7
- Users favorite of this poem: Anthony Hanible, Demar Desu - 德马尔·德苏
Online)
Comments2
This poem seems both surreal and existential. It unspools as if it were tempered wire springing off a reel. Nicely done
Was the two Mys at the end on purpose? If it was I feel like it emphasizes… great poem nonetheless thouhh
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