Clockwork Memories

Outside the sky is blistering,
in here air bubbles mute.
I breathe it, sour, boiling over.

Surroundings become hazy
through cigarettes and a
miasma of broken thoughts;
to me, the ash is a very
faint wreckage.

I think I was murdered here
some time ago.

I watch minutes bend, shatter
and fall from the clock,
becoming dead hours
smothering the day.