As I pass through the hallway,
I hear the ticking of the clocks;
the tapping of the watch.
There's a step in my walk,
as I move from heel to toe.
Forwards, backwards.
I enter the room,
I'm greeted by the solemnness of the chair.
A glance at the clock,
its position on the wall,
so precise and careful.
I take a seat and lay down the strike of the pen.
The passing of the moment.
I take a look up at the hands,
they say to me:
"We only move one way".
A quizzical look.
"And what way would that be?"
Silence.
I put down the pen,
moving my eyes over what was written.
Mutterings
of marbled musings.
Tales
of scornful sorrows.
Words
of lyrical regret.
A thought spoken aloud:
"How did I come to be here?”
Another glance at those hands.
"How long has it been?"
The shortage of memory.
Only silence and
the passing of the moment.