17. At midnight

At midnight two, I'm calling you,

wish you could join my solitude,
be among the spared colours,
remain spread in my sky,
time would never slip into dawn, reality is often difficult to deny.

At midnight three, wish I could scream,
out loud that I am someone with feelings,
where would I end up if the time flees,
my shattered dreams.

It makes me fill with guilt, the more deep I sink,
for when to start and where to end my thoughts,
from choosing words to putting them in place,
but people infer something different from what I mean,
voices start to feel like a tightly lassoed rope around my neck.

I wish I could interpret what lies beneath me,
unfold the concealed truth, unyielding to conceal,
let you enter my world of secrets.
So don't ask me why do I talk less,
because I can't express.
nothing is really left to adore,
battling with words in a silent war,
a tightly lassoed rope around your wound.

It's already midnight four,
in a wooden piece of clock,
stuck on that same wall,
blank, bare, dramatic and tall,

It's past midnight.