That blank, white, round face
Almost filled to the brim with apathy
As I regard it from afar.

Quietly ticking and tocking
Bearing witness to us all
Almost everywhere
As if to emphasize
The impossibility of escape.

It is omniscient yet knows
Nothing
Telling us with 12 numbers
2 spinning “hands” and 44 small lines
Everything.

It aggravates me
That men thought wise in ages past
Gave power to a thing so trite and unassuming
By desiring to order the abstract.

If I were to suddenly to abandon it
I may be thought of as insane.
But how can you not be
When it is not the sun
But the beat of
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
That continually spins the world?