Burning Pins

A little tale about what it means to be awake, sometimes.

Pins rattle down the spine 

and the marks left leave burning lines that pulse to the tick of a ancient clock. 

The hands are like hammers 

smashing away the seconds which are like bricks in a wall. 

The dust spreads out and from the confusion 

a figure stands, 

his cloaked form hidden in the industrial mist. He rises 

and in him one can taste the end. 

He is like a flavour that build in your mouth - at first it's sweet, but as I surrender acid burns the sugar and melts all I am. 

I vanish. 

Days become like wet cloths falling upon my sleeping face. 

Inside I am locked. 

For the burning pins, I wait.