The clock stares ahead,

Staring.

Flaring, at the paintings,

Staring.

Impatient and bored he stares,

Staring.

The paintings beautiful, four,

Staring.

He grows more impatient,

Waiting.

For them to stare back.

Come on.

But they’ll never look,

Never.

For they are paintings,

Beautiful.

Still in their beauty,

Made.

And he is but a clock,

Always moving.