Six Minutes Past ((11:11))

Just a simple wish,
upon which all reality is based.
Gripping tightly onto slippery nothings;
praying not to fall too far down.

The clock strikes eleven sixteen,
take a photograph of this flying feeling.
Soaring above the scarred earth,
fingers entwining in a sea of clouds.

So it's just a simple wish,
and a night of insomniatic despair.
Five minutes past eleven eleven.
Blow out the candles; the end.