Poem: The Clock Ticks. Slowly.


The Clock Ticks. Slowly.

The clock ticks.

There are no ends of days.
Simply time.

Too much perhaps, for mere projects.
Movies on the TV dull your mind.
Words, in book after book,
become something from Alice in Wonderland,
mad things that swirl around you,
no longer entertaining, no longer elucidating.
Too much of the best of things.

You watch your neighbors from the window.
You visit on small screens and tinny speakers.

The clock ticks

Even the cats are tired of your presence.

In the morning you write
until your fingers ache.

You delve into your own mind,
see wisdom, seek the answer to prayers,
seek to see yourself better.

Too much in too short a time.
You have become a bore
to yourself, tired of the stockpiled foods,

your whims put in the closet,
not allowed. Unsafe,
of they were ever safe at all.

Even your demons have grown tired,
the torture no longer fair sport.

The clock ticks

You savor your coffee.
It almost seems a sin to savor
so much and so long.
And yet here you are,
flooding your body with bitter darkness and caffeine,
and nothing to do with it.

The clock ticks,

About this poem

Even this introvert has tired of all this. Half a joke poem. Half serious.

The picture was taken at Wilson Castle near Proctor, VT. I have no idea what this odd little building is supposed to be, but it looks like a beautiful prison.


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