Clock

The hands
spin.
Every day.
Day after
day they
spin.
Relentless.
Morning.
Noon.
Night.
Relentless.
Planet spins.
Relentlessly
it spins.
Time
spinning,
fritting it
all away.
Can’t be
stopped.
Can’t hold
the hands.
Impossible to
hold the hands,
stop the clock.
Impossible.
Monotonous,
relentless,
regularity.
Grabbing 
by the scruff,
dragging 
all along
for the ride.
Spinning faster,
the hands
spin faster.
Furiously
spinning.
The ride will
not stop,
will not
stop
till the
end.
Then
it happens.
The hands
seize,
stop spinning.
Time’s up!

Reviews

[barleygirl]

This is a head-spinning dynamic message that brought many things to my mind as I was reading. I thought about how, when young, time seems to crawl. Then as we get into middle-life, time seems to go faster & faster. I got notes of that from your poem, but I also seemed to get the sense that going faster or slower, kept changing in your poem. Which reminded me of how, getting old, time slows down again, like in the opening of your poem, we are often just waiting for the days to slowly crawl by. My mom died one week ago today at the age of 96 & all I can say is, please don't make me live that long. That would be too much like living out your poem! (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[E.J. Waling]

Hi BG,
Sorry to hear about your lose. Time is a funny thing.
The earth spins regularly yet in our minds perceived irregularly. Thank you kindly for reading my work.
JG

[BlackPrince]

I wonder if the fragmentary structure layout of the poem reflects the fragmentary yet constant nature of time?

[E.J. Waling]

Hi BP,
Thank you kindly for reading my work.
JG