Hourbones

Hours piled up like dead flies,

as your rented time held you hostage.

The hour hand, the minute hand, the second hand, 

each demanding obedience

with the entitlement of lives

that never learnt the debts of breathing.

So I bludgeoned the heart of the clock

against a concrete wall.

The glass burst open,

time spilling itself

across the floor —

a rough mosaic of shattered moments

pretending to be history.

Somewhere between the storm and the silence,

I realised

I couldn’t remember your face anymore.

Not blur.

Not figments.

Just unadulterated absence.

Sometimes prisons

aren’t places you escape from;

they’re the spine

hammered into your back

so even emptiness can stand.