We sink into the harbor as thirsty ships drink from the horizon
We are all asking Time to please stop telling us the season
But it can never heed our warnings nor our reason
A clock is a certain type of poem that never stops turning on itself
For it takes a special kind of feeling to unlock the mechanism
That makes man into a mechanic and not a lover
And Cupid’s arrows seem to miss their mark a lot more often
Men now have trouble grasping that their hands
Are not just for taking but they may also be projections of their hearts
And perhaps love-making is an art-form that we are all starting to lose
So instead we destroy relationships faster than we can say, I do