by Nicharee 'Milk' Phatitit


In the calm,

The systematic locomotion;

Morning fractured into

The clean, white minutes -

Washed over by the

Sudden sea of serifs.


Poetic expressions

Bring no lasting


Only the meticulous certainty

Of sensory memory


Marking those moments,

So softly.

The broken hours

Passed unnoticed

Under the static

Scheduled structure,


Weekdays' anaesthetics.

Hard to imagine

The numbers it had numbed,

So many.