Don't Look

The clock ticks and ticks,
It is insanely incessant,
Yet futile and fruitless,
Like snow that never sticks,
Or plants that fail to produce.

The sanded wood,
Recalls what I never could.
The saddened hands,
Point to stranger lands,
While it's crying face,
Stares straight into space.

O yes,
My clock is far from glorious.
Everyone thinks of their clock that way…
Right?
Someone might not I suppose.
But why would someone enjoy their clock, though?
Who savors seeing the time it shows?

Time is depressing,
Like black rain in spring,
For time is not how long it's been,
But how much is left to spend.
It is a countdown,
That only ends,
Once your blood has browned.

Don’t look at that wretched contraption.

I have done it myself,
It is twisted and vicious,
All it does is make time more viscous,
Thick and slow as molasses.

Time is slow to take it's toll on its prey,
Time's prey won't realize it's struck until its final days;
It is a book with a boring beginning,
But it ends with the reader begging and balling,
That the story to never end.

A clock has the power to disorient,
For it is the one part of time’s testament,
That we never took.

Don’t look.