The Death of Me

It was early in the morning, about fifteen minutes past

the time I should be waking, now my parking spot won’t last.

The noisy clock was beeping its displeasure at my laze

so in a rush I hit the fiend and looked down in my daze.

Unfortunate tidings met me as I searched upon the floor,

pieces of the chronograph had reached the bathroom door.

Up from the bed I rose in haste, unhappy with myself,

and went to grab my spectacles from off nearby bookshelf.

Once on my face and seeing clear, a step aback I took.

There stood the broken timepiece, yet with abnormal look.

The wizened hands no longer ticked, stood still on white-backed face,

timely gears inside no longer tocked having lost their even pace.

Removing rims and wiping eyes in shock I glanced anew,

but seeing tick and hearing tock the confusion now withdrew.

Back to my morning rhythm, my routine not complete,

wanting breakfast in my belly, needing shoes upon my feet.

First things first I need to clean my body and my mind

so brushing teeth and next a shower, then proceeds the daily grind.

Walking to the lavatory I couldn’t help but think -

(Perhaps the vision was from my dreams attempting to hoodwink.

Though what might be the purpose of a smashed and shattered clock

appearing fixed yet motionless without a tick nor tock?)

While pondering this morn mirage, a squeak - a rattle - a hiss

surprised me from the washroom… something is amiss.

Recently removed from parents’ house, alone in apartment I stay,

closer to my place of work and the in-disrepair subway.

Failing to be frozen in fear through the door I burst

heart in throat, adrenaline fueled, the steam being dispersed.

My entrance was fast and none too meek, dismayed by what I heard,

the sound now gone but on the mirror, in vapor, mysterious words:

{You’re welcome my friend, my love, myself, don’t tarry any longer.

We haven’t much time, but when combined, we’ll truly be much stronger.}

Blinking back panic and glancing around, no culprit could I observe,

when down my scalp a phantom liquid jostled cranial nerve.

In my dazed and bewildered state, I didn’t happen to heed

that my hair smells fresh, skin feeling clean, a shower I no longer need.

My dread replaced by curious act of being miraculous washed.

Many minutes saved and body supple, but anxiety still not quashed.

(What a strange delirious morning in which I have awoke,

a bath bizarre, a vision, a message - meaning to be uncloaked.

Weird I am since running towards the precarious unknown

might be my death by another’s hand since I’m clearly not alone.

Is it a ghost? Who really cares? They seemed to do right by me.

Saved me some time, and promised me strength, a friend they may truly be.

Odd thing to do, to bathe a stranger, either kind or perv or worse…

May they be preparing me for travel in a hearse?

Who really knows, but time marches on, to work I still must go.

Let’s just get dressed in suit and tie and grab a quick espresso.)

Turning to the closet, pushing aside flannel and jeans,

grab a collared shirt and pants that are worn out at the seams.

I toss my outfit on and smile, rotating on my heel,

ready for my breakfast of cinnamon apple oatmeal.

Checking my appearance in thrifted mirror braced,

the working clothes had up and gone, casual in their place.

Now with this current attire swap, the latest uncanny affair,

I’m forced to reconsider my relationship with prayer.

Right before I supplicate and start to pray on bended knee,

a note emerges atop the mirror - probably meant for me:

{Please come to the kitchen, you’re making me a treat, 

pancakes are for brekky and ice cream will be neat!}

The chance to meet my irksome specter, presented now at last,

I almost tripped on the hallway rug, but stopped myself steadfast.

Within the kitchen, at the stove, there stood a man my height

and at the table, sat a child, eating ice cream bite by bite.

Intruders they, but familiar face smiled above the bowl with glee.

Apparition not, for I know this child, sixteen years ago he was me.

Wearing our old favorite shirt, Earth and stars were on the fore

and on the back in crazy font was a bit of NASA lore.

One conundrum solved, the other cooking crepes -

(This must all be infringement from my slumbering dreamscape).

Glancing past the towel on his shoulder, spoke the man -

“I made them special, just like we like, with sweet and salty pecans.”

Spinning around he looked at me with soft grin upon his lips,

wrinkles match the faint lines on mine, catching pancake after flips.

“So it must be you cleaned me up”, I pointed to the sage,

“And you, dear child, who changed my garb” to boy at early age.

“Yup!!”, said the kid after a spoon had left its dairy gift,

“I wanted to help. Please don’t be mad?” Now the sophos starts to shift.

“If you haven’t yet distinguished, we all three are the same.

Who really cares? Well for sure not us, we carry corresponding name.

We’re here to help you find yourself, and gain what once you had:

Imagination run amok, before depressing undergrad.

It pilfered heart and gave you paper for which you’re now revered,

Yet in same life, you would have trod, had we not appeared.”

“I don’t wanna be mean…”, said me-the-younger, “I just want a happy life!!”

“...and now you have me questioning, if it was worth all this Damn strife.”

“LANGUAGE!!!” scolded the forbidding voice drew forth from me-the-elder.

“He’s not a kid, he learned to hide from alcoholic dad in shelter!!!”

That phrasing came out more livid than I had yet intended,

(Shit, maybe he’s correct and thus, this rift between us should be mended.)

Kid ceased his luxurious eating, having hidden behind the chair,

“I’m sorry… me… that wasn’t right. Let me try to clear the air.

I’m not mad at you, but at myself. I’m dearly in the wrong.

Not for swearing, not for cursing, but for simply losing my birdsong…

that thing that keeps you growing towards the place that you call home

It always rings and calls you back, no matter where you may roam.

You’re never alone in this big, wide world, you will always have someone to call.

Related by blood or found in friends, the connection will climb any wall.

You’re both right. I'm not happy, I’ll restart old past times.

Don’t give me that look old man, I won’t perpetuate any crimes.”

The withered lip of Elder Me curled up into a grin,

“I’m not mad at you, my boy. You’re not committing any sin.

Instead I was sad and trying to protect the small Younger Me from pain.

To no avail, we both have failed, but can choose to start again.” 

He offered me his gnarled palm, I took it with respect.

After shaking hands together, for child we did inspect.

Me-the-Younger crawled out from under the table looking smug,

“My plan worked great, cause I’m the best. Now can I have a hug?”