Poetic Justice

An ancient clock

I sit in a room,
Full of loud voices,
Pained faces,
And empty praises.

But what catches my attention more,
Than the uncensored laughter,
Than the wavering eyes,
Than the useless words filled with no
Greatness.

More than the deafening sounds,
And the hundreds of faces,
Is the ancient brown clock,
Plastered against the wall,
At the front of the room.

Something about how it sits,
Minding it's own business,
How it's arms have ticked,
Around the same centre,
For ages,
Yet its chimes,
Are brand new to my ears,
Is relateable to me.

How many hours has it made pass?
How many faces has glanced upon
It's face made of glass?
How many years has it seen?

I wonder this,
As I am intrigued by it's lying exterior. It sounds delicate and young,
With each stripe it passes,
But I see beyond that mask it hides
Behind.
It seems ageless, timeless, as it is the
Very cause for time not being Timeless.

Perhaps I am so intrigued by it,
Because I know a person who is much Like it.
Her voice,
So light and filled with high pitched
Excitement,
But beyond all that people see,

Lies a heart that has been broken
So many times,
A mind that is so filled with concealed Wisdom,
And eyes that have seen so much, in
Their apparent short existence.

How many people has she seen taken
Away from her?
How many hours have passed her,
As she sits all alone,
No company by her side.

She runs around,
She continuously moves around,
A constant circle,
That one could call her life.

She hides behind a mask,
A mask of her untimely perfection.
Just as the ancient clock does.

As I compare myself,
To the ancient clock on the wall,
It terrifies me,
All the things we have in common,
All the similarities,
All the likeness of our sameness.

Perhaps the only thing I wish I had,
The only difference between the
Ancient clock and myself,
The difference I wish were a likeness,

Is the fact,
That the ancient clock on the wall,

Has control over time,
In all it's finest forms.

~n.s