ticktockticktock,, bang

every waking moment,,
my laboured breathing stops,,
while every fleeting second,,
I contemplate…

…the death of the clock

the soft ticking,
time trapped,
beneath the glass face.
dull numbers,
printed on stark white,
uniform, stiff.
the steady rhythm,
the hollow pounding,
echoing emptily,
in the false silence.

faster, faster,
the gears are turning,
twisting, shifting.
quicker now,
spiderwebs etched,
into the glass.
fragile cracks,
spreading swiftly.
the hands spinning,
no restraints,
whirling freely,
round melting numbers.
the glass splits open,
showering the floor,
with clear shrapnel.

the clock is left,
battered and bruised,
the structure gone,
and yet,
more beautiful than ever.

Written spontaneously during a slack session during PE. Very metaphorical. Aaaand, if you don’t understand it, “you’re not deep enough for this kind of shit.”

xoxo
scaramouche

~ by theautumnfall on May 9, 2008.