The Clocks

I've eyed all the clocks.

Manifest by my wandering soul,

I've smashed them against rocks.

Burned them in the fire fight.

Banished them with locks.

Cast them into the dead of night

with the ghost of my touch.

The haunting of my memories.

The combinations, and imaginings

and melding of reality . . .

and my mind's leavings.
I've eyed all the clocks.

Wound them up, back, and tight

But time takes its due.

My wandering, comes

back empty handed;

only the smell of my desire.

I rant, and hate the seeming

innocence of all those

damned clocks.