old man walking on the street,
step by step a tired treat.

he knows where he's going but
not why and from the edges of an eye,
sees the boats and cigarettes
floating in the water.

his grey hands feel so used
dusty veins bulging, purple and bruised.
he feels young
he feels so very young.

plants being planted,
recalling the rants that he once ranted.
wished for wisdom to be granted
all for his daughter.
now long departed.

then he leaves this mournful place.
the ghost of a smile on his face.

remembering the laughter they used to share.
he takes another breath of air.

Time and time again
I strike over and over.
drifting and sifting
lifting the smells of clover.

That I could be sober means nothing,
the gamble has been taken.
The prize is not lost
I have become lost.

what once was closeness
has now become space.
thanks to the emptiness
of my own action.

do not tell me that I have been foolish
for I know I have.

I am here to see that
my fear is what will be,
close to me.

Glass of wine today.
Maybe two? feeling wavy woo
Red divine, nice of you.

Tick Tock.

Cradles the clock.
Second hand. Slow stop.
Nailed to walls.
So the clock falls.

Cogs making cracks
Springs, springing firm then lax.
waxen marks grinding
generating sparks as the hands point.

Moving to soothing,
sometimes brooding.
Handles the seconds
guessing it recons.

How many?

Until Tick Tock.
Starts to stop.