The Hours of One

I'm playing with rhyme schemes, though whenever I write rhymes I feel like they are very infantile.

The bell tolls

The clock strikes

My stomach rolls

Into indescribable knots

This is the hour my soul rots

It is the hour of one

 

I sit in my rocking chair

And hear whispers of wind

I clutch at my hair

To calm my erratic heart

Though this pounding beat is just a part

Of the hour of one

 

I feel my body sink

Into itself

And I cannot clearly think

The concrete below my feet

Eats my body, a bitter treat

The hour strikes again

 

An yet I cannot feel the sands of time shift

I am suspended in a concrete tomb below my own feet

And I cannot lift

Myself outside my self

My soul sits collecting dust on a shelf

In the attic room of the universe

 

She’s a pretty thing Miss Universe

And I do suppose I could have done worse

To sit on the shelf of someone so important

I really should be content

 

But a shelf is not the hollow shell

Of my body

The cold flesh suit, which, despite its flaws and pitfalls

Is still my

Home.

 

The home of being

And though I’ve been fleeing

That hollow shell

Living out here on this self is utter hell

And honestly, I’d really like to just go home now.

.

.

.

The clock strikes

It is the hour of one

The hour of none.

Reviews

[Kesha]

Wow i really love it. Truly amazing. You're better at rhyming than I am. Great job.

[R.K. Hughes]

Thank you! I'll keep trying my hand and rhyming , thanks so much for the encouragement :)

[Kesha]

You're welcome and you should!