Why such discomfort?
Something eerie about single digits
Something strange about standing soldiers
Legs are shuffled, fingers fidget
Hairs prick up as air seems colder
Lump in throat has turned to stone
11:12 before it’s a boulder
Though 11:11 is long and alone
Decisions are made at 11:11
Perfect time for imperfect revelations
Moments of clarity, realisations
Baader Meinhof trapped in a number
Over thinking trivialisations
Mental transforming the breeze into thunder
Concentration set for blunder
11:11 closing in
Trash compacted
Weight rests heavy
The pin through the axis of the world unsteady
All eyes glaring
Pulses change pace
Only time invading personal space
Only time seemingly magic and mystical
A modern curse for modern days
Only since analogue turned to digital
11:11 appears and preys

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