A clock with no hands
six is nine and thirteen chimes
faces in places and silent voices
feet moving backwards
eyes stare ahead
the past
Is gazing at us
for we were there once
maybe more - like staccato dots
etherised in our senses
we edge into reality like
waves that wash away footprints
for this is ours alone
to dream
to sail
to fly and to hold
with feet of wings
from discarded feathers
that once spanned the skies
searching for love
for it is hidden
amongst the rainy clouds
and the deserts that plague
our imagination, the fire of which
burns it away
to make the past
our present and
the dreams
our Forever.
Jun 4, 2022
Jun 4, 2022 at 3:32 PM UTC
A clock with no hands
six is nine and thirteen chimes
faces in places and silent voices
feet moving backwards
eyes stare ahead
the past
Is gazing at us
for we were there once
maybe more - like staccato dots
etherised in our senses
we edge into reality like
waves that wash away footprints
for this is ours alone
to dream
to sail
to fly and to hold
with feet of wings
from discarded feathers
that once spanned the skies
searching for love
for it is hidden
amongst the rainy clouds
and the deserts that plague
our imagination, the fire of which
burns it away
to make the past
our present and
the dreams
our Forever.
