The earth is a clock.
Their clock.
I watch their eyes drop, like their shoulders.
Unwilling to hold up the weight of the ticking clock anymore.
Frost begins to play with their features.
They are crumbling under the heavy hands of the clock.
Asit dictates beginnings and endings.
All they want is more time.
But their clock can't make exceptions.
It just presses on.
Cold.
Heavy.
Infinite, perhaps.
No one knows for sure where the clock began.
No one knows where it will end.
YOU ARE READING
Mood Swings
PoetryA collection of poems I have written in the last year or so. Work in progress. I add to it every week. Let me know if there is any poem you like (or don't like). I love feedback on my work.
