The second hand is heavy weight--
I drag in circles, ball and chain.
Even burst of sun disdains--
my crypt is mockery--"too late"
A forearm is a sorry shield--
I yearn to curl up in my shadow.
Give to me a light's reprieve--
bury bone beneath the marrow.
Pulsate rhythm of sun ray
beats my peace of dark comfort--
Illuminati--seize the day--
in my scorn, I pray for storm.