Sunday, 7 December 2008


Eerily they toll,
alone they chime
as a new day turns old.
Not a minute ahead nor a second behind.

The man in the pink-coloured shirt and polka dot tie
has shed his brightly-coloured skin
and has descended into inconspicuousness.
He now awaits the arrival of an old, true friend.

Hands - black and thin, its movement precise -
captivated the woman
who captivated in a pink-coloured blouse and a polka dot scarf.
An unfamiliar silence shrouded a place which she thought so familiar
as her thoughts turned to memory.

Clatter, mild chatter filled moments just passed.
A pink table cloth,
upon which four hands rested,
and napkins polka dot
of silk and linen.

The hands once again:
Black and thin, its movement precise,
but lackadaisical then as it moved left to right.
A sigh, a glance.
A smile and a skipped heartbeat
when, in the horizon, appeared a pink cadillac with polka dot seats.

A steady, gloved finger,
thin and slender.
With movements precise
it battled the darkness with small clusters of light
and brought smiles to faces, both large and slight.

The hands, don't forget, they continued to move.
They knew no respite
and onward they marched to midnight.


Shazwan Azizan said...

You sound like that romantic who had a fetish-like obsession with hands...I can't quite remember what movie he's from. Anyway, nice!

njahmat said...

Dear K.O (hahaha, like KO opposite of OK),

Ok, ok, lame jokes aside, to your comment: Now, why am I not surprised?=P

The Angry Medic said...

Whoa. This was, like, deep, man. Far out!