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.