is not the click of a clock,
nor the caw of a rooster,
nor the melody of your snoozed alarm, 
nor the chime of the school bell,
nor the droning of traffic,
nor the thud of embracing your bed, 
nor the clink of cutlery at dinner,
nor the tick of light switches flicked off. 

It is silence, 
the burn of nothingness 
that encapsulates minutes
like a fruit stretching
to surround its pit,
the inaudible hum of days 
slipping into oblivion 
like that same fruit falling,
opening, merging with grass,
with earth, with the foundation.