Tick. . . Tick . . . Tick. . .
by Fatima Alzahraa Hussein
Tick. . . tick. . . tick. . .
A long day exhausted of fatigue
between a second and a second.
We spend it on waiting.
Burnt like a flame
No summer sun.
Came . . .
No winter flower
Blooms. . .
We spend our days. . .
between attack and retreat
the gray hair invades my head.
Exhausted, exhausted captivates me
in fate and thinking.
Tick . . . tick . . . tick
waiting for so long
My coffee has cooled
frozen. . .
and covered by the dust of time.
The heart has
Enclosed walls.
With spider webs making
everything emaciated,
dying . . .
so that even a body grunted with
roughness.
The wind of separation
and dimension.
The desertion and repulsion
on my neck.
Like a rope of flame . . .
Tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .
My watch tilted
and bent over.
I become . . .
Dissolved.
Molting.
Nothing left from me
the name carved
between my cold . . . frigid
clockwise hands.
The strings of my heart
crucified . . .
and portable obsequies on this
coffin.
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