when the clock ticks at 12,
another minute has passed and another day has been renewed.
it replenishes an entire moment that separates yesterday from today.

when the clock ticks at 12,
a part of me has left something for good.
something that could only be retrieved by the nostalgia
of the passing hours that gives a pang of discomfort and dismay.

when the clock ticks at 12,
a fairy godmother is there waiting for me to move past everything and start fresh,
like nothing has ever happened from yesterday

but when the clock ticks at 3,
my emotions are scattered,
eating me alive.
it kicks me out of the zone - exposing me to a world of nothing but things to hide.
it haunts my core, dwells with my demons,
building up emotions that don't seem to collide

and at 3, I find you - once again with all the sublime images we’ve captured
and grand words we’ve uttered.
i find you, drowning from the roots
of my memoirs... and there I see how midnights took parts of me

because at 3, I’ll always remember how I grew with thee


a.t.

I watch a moment more -
the hands they turn, and rise.
I know not - what to expect
With each exhaling breath.

The hands, again they move -
not together, but with each other.
A syncronised harmony -
both moving, changing blissfully.

I'd look away, but I daren't not
I stare amazed, awaiting -
trying to catch or freeze I know not -
The tick-tock of that enormous clock.

Heaviness of broken spell,
your utterances intentionally equate.
Pull the blinds on top these eyes,
kept distant of this chosen slate.
Romance thrives on infrequent boundary
of spirit disguised as flesh.
Sorrow of this heart remains
for no other life does mesh.

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 “hands” 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?