THE CLOCK TICKS

The clock ticks

and we approach death by the minute.

The wealthy never worry about time

because moneys masks.

Woman with an expensive dress

your hidden face is a testimony

rampaging in an Italian market, alluring

men by your gilded charms.

One day your beautiful breasts will hang

and age will ravage you

rearrange you into the beast you are.

What man, but another beast

would ever be allured by you again?

The clock ticks

and we keep death away by the hour.

The snobbery smiles of gentlemen

stroke the clock like it’s an embellishment.

Boots of leather

still squeaking of their luxuries in life

as a waiting limousine gleams, half frozen

in some fairy charmed life.

One day you will drag your feet by a cane

and your remorse will be great

because your money will not resurrect you.

What woman, but another legless creature

will imbue you to court her?

The clock ticks

and you should hear the voice of poverty.

The poor will never care about wealth

knowing its inseams is blatantly corrupted.

Woman dependent on your wealth

will never understand her blue blood dependency

stringing her maids like a yarn

and casually ringing the dinner bell.

One day the house and the bell will be gone

as age rusts and rots all elements

including your diamond studded hairpin.

The Guides of Heaven will not be accountable

as your spirit will merge

with the poverty and the unclothed dead.

The clock ticks

and this is the Truth and the Way.

Lend your minutes and the hours to nurture

those who are lamenting in Grace.

In the end

you shall be defined by spiritual substance.