Time goes by like the longest nightmare;
never-ending and full of wicked surprises.

Time goes by like the shortest dream; rapid and without impurities, factually killing every bit of me.

Dreaming is not always my biggest despair,
but most times the reason to believe that I'll be able to drown my soul in the hope that I urgently need.

The second hand gives my heart a rhythm to follow when it's lacking desire to continue.

The minute hand moves minutely as the rhythm beats,
slowly indicating the unwanted end of my dream.

The hour hand is the shortest, but the longest too. This is my never ending nightmare that takes forever to end,
leaving me and my soul drenched in a soul-drowning sorrow with the desperate need of external deliverance.

Time may be a virtue, but it kills too.

Poor, poor, lonely clock; the decades of abandonment wear down on it's gears.
It's existence, once stark against its surroundings, gives into the weathering effect of the elements.
Poor, poor, clock, it can feel the atmosphere of ruin pressing down on it, the broken branch somehow defying gravity.
Hidden from the world, the clock loses its hope, with each second passing by.
Each sound it emits grows more intense than the last.
Poor, weak clock, he can't stop the inevitable.
He's wearing away, batteries perishing with each tick. The reason is that Death comes to all life.
Rain pattered freely on the clock that night, how fitting. His ticking grows weaker now, each more quiet than the last.
He thought that dying would be more chilling, instead, he just sort of stops.

Tortured time traveling;
the mind unraveling.

Hands which cannot hold hers to console.
They forever move forward
spending time we cannot afford.
Alone, he will find, he's a man out of time.
Day dreaming of things he'll never see,
imagining ways he'll never grow to be.
No future he'd prefer
than to find himself with her,

but he instead lives life loving how they once were.

I'm a pendulum
Slowly swinging one way and another.
Always destined to be opposite,
Always almost touching one extreme or the another.
I long for the dull thud of metal on wood.
I remember as a child playing with the brass pendulum of my parents' clock. Interfering.

I'm a cuckoo cuckoo.
In my cuckoo clock.
Popping in and out.
Hidden inside or on full, crude display,
Chirping away,
But never will I not be the other,
In time.

I am the weather,
My own seasons,
A planet orbiting its sun,
Ever-changing, always running,
Spinning, dizzying, ever busying Myself but never getting to the sun.
Never knowing true dark or true light,
Only the insistent tick tock of day and night.
Regimented, regular dawns and dusks.
Waiting for the next change of scene
Wondering what it would mean to reach the sun,
Wanting to let the cuckoo break loose of its small, wooden case.

.................................................................­.......................................................

        ­                          lost in midnight madness
                                         I can hear the clock
                                                  tick tock
                         A battle against the voice in my head

           "Don't go there”
                                                          ­                                  
                                                                ­           “But it’s time”

           “You’ll be fine”
                                                           ­                           
                                     ­                                     “Lose your mind”

                                 A breakdown of a different kind
                                    an insomniac with no reason
                                                    or rhyme

            “You’ll be fine”

                             I’ll only sleep when the sun wakes up

.............................................................­...........................................................