My clock is tightly wound;
the springs creak,
the tick and toc are loudly
pronounced alternating sounds as
the second hand silently
passes round and round.
No one understands it,
but as the minute and hour
hands clamor through
the second hand
passes by and by;
just passing time
although no one knows
why and how this
clock of mine
is tightly wound.
YOU ARE READING
Samy's Poetry
PoetryA little bit of poetry from this crazy mind of mine. Hope it helps you feel something. Maybe even think something. <3
