Open season on interpretations: barricade

and the time drags on and on
    sifts red from not, colour
               in the black and grey-blue of morning.

       you are not here, you
  cannot remark upon the endless futility 
                but I know you would.
         you understand you know

that it is not morning here
            nor evening nor day
    time loses meaning and presence

and I sit empty
      stupidly hoping
              to become a queen