Time rolls
its mossless stone
slowly tonight.

It is as though the
tic
has lost it's
toc.

Seconds have become
thirds, fourths, fifths.
So slowly does
the smallest hand
move upon the cracked face.

Minutes no longer tiny minute things.
But now gargantuan wedges
of pie.
So large as to feed
history's poor twice over.

Hours are unpowered,
flacid flat balloons
without breath or form
smothering all thought.

The grandfather clock
in the hallway
has embraced senility
and no longer
completes it's
pre-ordained
preambulation
around the
captured sundial.

It has now given itself
airs and graces.
Believing in heart and mind,
and cog and pendulum,
to be a jazz percussionist
banging, tapping and ringing
in an off beat tempo
somewhat lacking in
basic rhythm.

So time runs
with the scatterd
predictabality of the Tardis.

Bigger on the inside.....
Slower on the darkside
of the  grandfather clock.