cotardtheliving:

There is a shadow
on the wall now
where grandfather’s clock
used to hang.

In February
the keys stopped winding
and the hands were made
absent by the hourless chimes
that gasped from
the wallpaper
like drowning men.

In my head I hear
every false tick
like a phantom limb
and feel gouged by the minutes
that just aren’t there.

The repairman estimates
another two months,
maybe three, but it’s hard
to tell how long that really is
when there’s no face on the wall
making eyes at me.

See, when you sit and think about it
every second is a mere degree
of how far we are
from the sun—an arbitrary
measure.

It’s God’s answer
to the age old question,
are we there yet?

“Well, kid, I really
don’t know.
I guess we’re there
when you decide
that we are.

But I’ll give you
a little tip: telling time,
it ain’t hard to learn.
All you gotta know is,
you’re too damn late
if you’re already burned.”

sentimental-gentle-wind:

Chaos is sown
into the faces of
clocks unmoving,
like an orchid
that is blooming.

The hours stillborn
between hands,
while my body,
caught in the
cold continuum of
space, begins
to shift its shape.

In a room full
of mirrors,
crisis waits.

The knuckles crack,
a nervous tic,
when reflections
start talking,
each identically
mocking, they ask,

“What do you know
Of death?”

I tell them only
that I’ll figure it out
when I’m dead.