2nd Trilogy II

The sad hours of my life
mount up, and pile themselves
large - sometimes they rise
to smother me, sometimes
they are quiet, ripples on a loch

They choke me with hands
when I hear a person
talking to their mother
on the 'phone, or see
Fathers' Day cards in shops

They maroon me on islands,
alone, thirsty, hungry,
or score me with knives
when I count the time, the
seconds lost, the
distractions with focus
elsewhere:  
	passing clouds
	shallow waters

and all the living chances
passed, and the sad
hours tick like a bomb
about to go off:
		too late
		too late
		too late

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