PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

it wasn't fickle and laughable

much too cold, unfelt

by those worthy of notice

And the lemon yellow feel

of earned ignorance

I found waiting a broken clocks face

it's works corroded and unwound springs like my thoughts,

the aged wood now dented and scratched to no finish

weights resting securely in gravity's enduring embrace

and I thought to use it, at least for a while,

as a new friend, a confidant, my own shoulder of understanding

because this broken clock would listen,

it would hold all judgements, and walk me through the worst of it.

I could rely on this unannimated partner to be constant,

worthy of the time I give it, though it no longer tracks such measurements

and the broken clock might be right, twice and then again in equal spans

but never would my partner in time, attempt to fix itself,

recoil the springs now twisted and sprawled out,

or chime at appropriate times, to be helpful to the forgetful, and untimely

just as I remain as broken as the day I realized my eyes lied,

that my heart was a fool, and my dreams were just that, unreal, dreams

I do not want to fix this broken tool I see my self as,

it was never meant to work in a world that allows such attrocities to go on

and on, and on, and never do the hurtful, or the cruel need be brought to terms

or made to fix what they vandalized. 

Broken, in this world, this place, works.  My clock, and myself, and time.