My closest enemy,
 My dearest friend,
 We meet again.
 The day of Mars*.
 No compass, brain fog, raindrop, brains gone
 So long, farewell, stairwell
 But I’ve already given up
 I’m lost.
 I picture the words, but it’s futile
 With no direction, the pain’s infectious and I’m stuck
 Like a classic car I rust,
 It’s unjust.
 But then I hear the clock tick
 It’s exhilarating, it’s electric
 I’m receptive
 At the cusp, it becomes clear, I can see, but more importantly
 I can hear,
 I hear the words; I feel the vibrations, the temptation of letting
 everything flow out
 It’s checked by patience.
 I wait, until the rhythmic ticks turn hollow and sour
 I wait, until the clock strikes
 I wait, remembering that a good story is like a flower


* ‘The day of Mars’ – Latin. Origin of the English word Tuesday.