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The Clock







The Clock

 

 

Waking, I turn 

3am glows fluorescently.

Time of the night rounds, my

wrist taken by a nurse,

noted in torchlight.

 

I was never sleeping.

Sometimes 

I would close my eyes

feigning.

Other nights I knew my thirst

would be quenched

by the offer of the beaker, held

so that I could chase away

dust that had gathered, dry.

 

3am embossed  my mind.

Common time for dying,

a crisis, running sound

of night staff.

 

 
Chrissie Morris Brady

 

Chrissie Morris Brady lives on the south coast of England. She likes birding when she can, and loves Purbeck passionately. Originally living in Germany, she is widely travelled and married an Irishman. Chrissie gained her degree in Psychology at USC, California and worked there with recovering addicts. She has been published by Plum TreeBooks, Scarlet Review, Mad Swirl, Anti-Heroin Chic, Dissident Voice, Writing for Peace and other poetry publications, including anthologies.

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