Poem -

The flying clock

The flying clock

My clock is 
asleep
it no 
longer strikes,
it has quite surely 
abandoned 
all 
time.
The ticking has
stopped
and it's 
alarm 
is silent.
It's hands tired and
unwound 
in permanent 
retirement.
My clock
is now
flying
thru the air
in a 
rage.
Perhaps
a rooster
I will now get 
in it's 
place?

 

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