Somewhere close, a clock hand ticks -

vividly, you feel each mechanical shudder,

not unlike a tiny heartbeat,

checking itself into that next inevitable stretch of time.

Time - the enemy come morning, yet

stretching onwards forever once night dons her cloak.

Witness to a tide of trembling moments, the mind flits,

a caged bird, indignant of this pampered imprisonment,

always preferring the cold, hard darkness of a freedom

you've only ever courted in dreams.

But that doesn't stop you from reaching out, outspread fingers

mimicking that nervous avian fluttering, a moment…

two… three… four… then the exhilaration of flight.

It consumes you, this thankless struggle through the choking

fog of normal life, sifting through ideals as ephemeral as clouds,

always wondering if the next stone you turn over reveals a gem.

In these moments, doubt raises its voice: who are you truly,

you with your petty whims, nonsensical tidal waves

of imagined calamities bleeding out of your very eyes,

blinding you to all but your own misery, painted crimson.

How worthy a match to the fury lurking behind that polite,

decorous exterior! The hated work face,

tied on by loathing hands from Monday to Friday,

perfection in every action, control the watch-word you worship

to the point of clinical obsession.

Hammering mutely within the murky confines of your skull,

almost drowning out the part of you that despises

all what you've become.

Desperate, yearning for the life your collective arrogance asserts

is your birthright, but we all know by next week

that beloved voice of dissent will be silenced.

Behind closed curtains, restless even in slumber,

glassy, shivering possibilities will rise, coiling

through the filth of subsistence in chaos - and you the hunter

sense how close it is now, the eagle soaring high and far,

beginning the stoop, watching the prize.