tick, tock

i’m sorry

i’m sorry

the words are there

they’re there

but

but they’re all jumbled

a junkyard made of

my stream (or scream)

of consciousness

and i’m sorry

i’m so sorry

the ticking tells me to talk

but the sentences

scatter before

escaping my skull

and

and i’m

i’m sorry

so very sorry

for the once-prospering,

poetry-producing

portion

of my brain

is dying,

so i’ll

drown out

the ticking

the tocking

with melodies

made by

those who

still thrive

in the melancholy

and the mundane,

while i watch

watch

and wonder

of miracles