That blank, white, round face Almost filled to the brim with apathy As I regard it from afar.
Quietly ticking and tocking Bearing witness to us all Almost everywhere As if to emphasize The impossibility of escape.
It is omniscient yet knows Nothing Telling us with 12 numbers 2 spinning βhandsβ and 44 small lines Everything.
It aggravates me That men thought wise in ages past Gave power to a thing so trite and unassuming By desiring to order the abstract.
If I were to suddenly to abandon it I may be thought of as insane. But how can you not be When it is not the sun But the beat of Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. That continually spins the world?