Clock Strikes 13 Poem by Ayesha Raza

The morning hits the window,
but I will never fade.
I'm tasting sunlight as it comes,
fathoming dark night.
Don't hurt my barriers,
they hold the sun that grows
when it hears my adrenaline
pumping arduously
through my spastic veins.

So cruel are the actions
of the moon's metal heart
that frolics shamelessly with the stars,
yet my arms speak with a heavy slur,
overcoming tired relief.
The sound of growls and ruby touch
hardened its cocky soul.
A mannequin that teaches
to be flesh and blood
is worth nothing more.

The clock strikes 13,
out of luck, you say.
No hope in the crazies!
We shrink by day.
Dancing to tunes of urban reek,
we sought broad journeys,
humiliated to speak,
only cared for more, ate for peace.

Tonight we suffer, no doubts for sure.
War may reside, but faith never dies,
till the last person alive
claims he's alright.
Shining orb, glow one more time!
Resonating rebellion and hungry for sleep,
may be hypocritical
but lacking the need.