Clock, you have never been a master of surprise.
Quick, you tick, when I find the missing part,
Slow, you tock on my bruised heart.
It is sick the way you yank the cord,
woven through my tear ducts at any sign of peace;
Reminding me who reigns and rains.
As I glare at your sharp hand that moves without care,
I realize the magnitude of your longevity,
You do not surprise me,
but I am no match for you.
You never die,
and as I lie on my back,
looking at all the meters that slave for you,
glued to my ceiling waiting for the moment to forcefully descend onto my skull,
I ponder all the things I'll be
and see if you could possibly take that from me.
I doubt your strength in that moment,
because, CLOCK,
you are all you'll ever be,
but me...
I am imagination, thought filled and free.
I am not bound in a glass in a cyclical display,
reliant on battery power indefinitely.