The Alarm

It wakes me—the alarm,
A cruel rupture, dreams scatter, 

A shard of noise in a quiet sea 

a break from my sweet balm.
Its chime rings clear,
Around me —no one else stirs.
They turn, and go back,
Into dreams that refuse to be delayed.
Each heart, it seems, holds its own sound,
Unheard—unfelt—each alarm is bound.

I rise, begrudging, 

The golden dreams, so rich, so bright,
Shattered now in morning’s light.

To greet the day’s brittle edge

A future I know will slip away.
But sometimes—sometimes— it feels good,
When awake from a terrifying dream.

Before I sleep—its voice may change,
But its hour never seems to range.

The situation has now become such

Even in rest, its chains remain.
Even on holidays, I wake up
Without an alarm.
Even on breaks, I rise—unrhyme

I gaze at the ceiling, fixed and still,
Desire more sleep, against my will,
Yet dawn arrives—too soon, too soon—
The waking world—a hollow tune.

A clock ticks—surrounds me here,
Will its alarm strike in my ear?
I wake from dreams—both bitter, sweet,
To find the day, its cruel heartbeat.

I must awake—
The clock demands—a path to view.
Time, it’s fixed—its voice a bell,
But the sound—my own, it cannot quell.

-------------------