Each flake that falls upon the ground
Carries a sort of air
It falls from heaven, and dances around
It lands upon my hair

Covered now,  in fairy dust
I must sing a new song
Not one of love or lust
But I want you to play along

When the snow has stop falling
I step back inside
I hear the trumpet calling
And know I must abide

I do as it commands
Like the voices in my head.
She knows I’ll understand
She knows I’m hanging by a thread

My body feels numb
But not from the cold
That feeling had never come.
This is a feeling I’d often hold

Each second on the clock seems to take longer
I know my time is coming
I hear it getting stronger,
The sound of distant drumming

The frail hand that keeps my time
Is coming to a close
For I start to hear the chime
An end to all my happiness, but also my sorrow and woes.

Nothing is a normal name
not that full of shame, hate or someone to blame
roses 're red, voliots 're blue but thier's is nothing to do
i alwys say hi, look up to the sky, share my words & wait for some music kinda look like the blus
yelling as a broking clock claiming she's getting the time right, yes & twice in one day.

Time passes oh so
slowly. Tick-tock, goes the clock
on the big white wall.

Once I saw a smile so bright
Like half-moon at a night.
Was it meant for me to see,
Can I keep it close to me ?

But time would never care-
It beats you hard just there.
It forces  things  to change
And now they are so strange.

Her smile comes back to me,
Often in my poor memory.
So I turn back again the clock,
Until the day it won't work .

"I once thought I had mono for an entire year. It turned out I was just really bored."--Wayne Campbell, *Wayne's World

Pass this
        night un-
*******
                                            wingnuts­.
Opened
        casing
showing
                                 ­            my guts.

Fragmented seconds ticking, slipping
through the widening span
                                     of these small hands.
I've unlocked                         my innards
and the truth is out: it's mostly rusting gears.
I've wound down.                 I've ground up
days and weeks, upended months,
spilled crumbs
                         of my years
on pages, aging fast.
The faces show it's late,
                                        so late.

Time's up.
          Trickling
out of
                                        habits
Gutter
        ­   nights are
washing
                                         ashes
Into
                 Yawning
                                              Faces
fille­d up
                  with questions
                                              falling
f­rom the corners of
their weary, sunburnt eyes.

I'll tick off one more weekend, crossing
panels off a page.
                               Discard a month.
They've opened                    the archives
and the story's old, the golden paper cracks.
The faces,                               blank pages,
rifle past through volumes' deaf--
--'ning greys.
                        Intentions
forgotten, filtered through
the seasons' blurring hum.

                                              It's so late.

Maybe beyond today
There is something waiting
There is a clock ticking
Waiting.
Its waiting for you to do something
Waiting for you to kick a gear on this clock
Waiting for you to go to tomorrow
Okay so don't give up
The clock is waiting
Do something
Stop taking advantage of the clock
Soon it will break down