The ever present sweep of hands
in the great numbered circle,
slowly counting us down,
to the infinity of eternity.

The pendulum swings,
time passes by the second,
never to be returned,
some used, others thrown away.

Tick, tick, tick,
we hear it first,
then we begin to feel it,
then we begin to see it.

The iron grip
of the clock,
its hands turned to fingers
gripping and squeezing our youth.