NArratiVe: one

The clock is frozen.
Everything is.

The only movement in the boy's room is the

12: 00
--
12: 00
--
12: 00
--

on his VCR.

'Now is a good time for reflection'
he says.

In reality, it's no different than any other night.

He picks up his pen.
and
he writes.
he scribes his soul.
he pens his existence.

he embodies himself in literature.

poem by Thom Isaacson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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