734. Untitled

[hes]

Based on moosemeister's seventeenth triplet: mime, crime, chime.

I won't even count how many days since it's been a full night of sleep. I can only say that the sun is rising earlier and earlier these days, so even when it's only a few hours, I console myself with the mathematics of x percentage more sleep than yesterday.


It's the fleeting ghost
of an emotion
across the expressionless face,
much like a mime,
leaving everything unspoken
and unheard.

So quickly
that the blink of the eye
might have thought it
a shadow cast by the waning light
but the truth
was already too far gone
to have ever been known.

The crime was never known --
whether it was sins of the flesh
or of the mind; defining
reality by what it wasn't.

The clock chimes
and the weariness sets in
like a comfortable cloak
against the world,
blending neatly into the darkness,
a fading image
of what might have been.