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Jake Leader
Poems
Apr 2013
The Clock
Tick Tock.
Cradles the clock.
Second hand. Slow stop.
Nailed to walls.
So the clock falls.
Cogs making cracks
Springs, springing firm then lax.
waxen marks grinding
generating sparks as the hands point.
Moving to soothing,
sometimes brooding.
Handles the seconds
guessing it recons.
How many?
Until Tick Tock.
Starts to stop.
Written by
Jake Leader
london
(london)
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