In the Morning I am coffee,
and the cool touch of fanned air.
But she is the cuts on his hands,
and the knots in my hair.

The flashing lights in my head
tell me that the day has begun.
Up from my bed,
up, up! I run.

The clock on the wall
helps me keep my tiny hands busy
with the day's assignments,
and feeble duties - tick-ticking.

I hasten about
doing my busy morning things.
I forget my little world
and tie hard my apron strings.

I have forgotten
how many days have passed,
the song of my mother's voice,
and all other beautiful segments bypassed.

I do not  yet feel alone,
as the time keeps me in line.
I have been in the hospital repeatedly,
but truly I am fine.

She is killing me;
a design of destitute minds.
The people keep screaming,
the endless cries "rewind! rewind!"


It lapses and prolongs
cries from the dead - tick-ticking
They expunge the smell with lime
but the blood keeps on sticking.