Poem: A Clock With No Hands.


I miss her like a broken metaphor,
The passing shadows wrap around me a breathless and impenetrable ache,
I’ve been courted by the temporal fleet of drifting static
These ghostly whirs of empty drafts, stir memories into broth—
Every moment: never enough in waking illusion
Bearing a peculiar character, and nuance—
A knack for randomness, too jagged a pause for entr’acte —
A salve to abstract thoughts, something as queer;
As the clear brine of poisoned wells, the broth am drunk off on,
And I can’t help that paradox has worn a mocking loop—
The silence of the in-betweens have become
More accurate, in-spite of their broken rituals
The pause has flattened all wreaths and scorched eternity
Across the lunar walls of the unbroken passing.
Her haunting is past, present, future—a tick in the very next tock.
It’s a precedent where lies no room for precedence
And yet it is all powerful— all slave-master like;
The nothing places are filled with ethereal jests—
Who then can explain it?
Why this dead clock is accurate at least twice a day, and not all day?
This ad-lib of finite essence cauled in the sallow caresses of inevitability,
This cascade of futility; a wet tongue drawn
Against a whet stone—coarse and slick—
Who’d think it to freeze time?
Still duration, wring it—
Break those hands; cripple its gnomon crutches,
Douse the shadows gliding across its sundials—
Thriving and living within the frame of the fullness of time,
Without experiencing a slither of its transition—
Maybe then, it’ll make
Her maiming absence a little more bearable,
Lest I seek a perpetual snooze
On this waking reality of solemn eternity,
For without her, life is like a clock with no hands; a bleak prop.


13 thoughts on “Poem: A Clock With No Hands.

  1. Thanks for following my blog. Your poems are fantastic, so I’m more than happy to return the favor. Looking forward to reading more, and I agree with hopewontfailme. Gotta get this published!

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