The clock gets me.
It comes to me in the middle of the night
Pulls back the sheets and says, "Hey fucko."
Then it lifts open my sobby wet sand-encrusted lids,
It knows when I'm trying at sleep, pumping quarters
Like I was swallowing yawns, sometimes I try to squint
Harder and take a dream to the next level, whatever
The next level is. It's like Friday night when I wanted to go
Out to do something, whatever something is.
Because I know that if I don't I'll miss that thing that's so
Important that if I were to miss it the clock wouldn't come for me

Again.
And on Tuesday's when I'm knotting a dream around 2 o' clock
In the morning, my web-footed adventure, say, killing your

Boyfriend, say
Fighting the Nazis, say,
Rediscovering that you sent nudie pics to
That rando guy we met in that club that lives
in Prague-
I throw the clock at the ******* wall.

Because who knows, I make the bed wrong
Or maybe I don't cook right, or look right, or
Smile the right way at the right

Time. And you start thinking that I have to die.
The bane of my existence is an imagined feat in your
Walnut-sized brain, slowly numbing us while we're
Supposed to be, say

Listening to the rich, Oxford voice of
David Attenborough.

Instead you're thumbing through that index
of CVS cashiers, just trying to find a scruffy face
To flip your digits to, your homemade justification. It becomes
A feat, an unjust cause of mine to

Get it right, that imaginative and artificial bit you've
Been sewing up Monday twilight.

That's when I go out and jaw your sister, somewhere between
A smirk on your face and a bit of anger at the end of your sentences.

Funny thing about time is it isnt real,
There is no then or before
There's just now, like a wheel,
Now is constant but always moving,
And the funny thing about time,
There's always more
Because it's all now, over and over again
So no pressure, because time,
Won't ever end...

Mind - tripping eyes subconsciously getting lost in grandfather clock.
Thoughts frolicking through fields that time could never stop.
From a lotus flower shinning bright from rejuvenation.
Born to all things new, putting the past in stagnation.
No matter the hardship, there's never a need to let petals start wilting over time elapsed.
Grandfather clock never stops, there's only so much vitamin d the day allows to grasp.
From this it's learned we must water our own apple blossom, one commonly missed,
As we search for the perfect bouquet of eternal bliss.
Yet it projects good fortune and releases hopeful vibes.
Grandfather clock couldn't let memory forget it, even if it were tried.
Apple blossom in hand, into daisy fields memory wallows about.
Holding tightly to what’s left of innocence, youth cannot run out.
What a gentle smell carried through the breeze, the sun with warmth to share.
When grandfather clock strikes a certain time, reflections will take me there.
When time is due, a valley is to be embraced.
Within which lay a single lily, in which happiness is grace.
Grace can be given all around, especially to those closest.
Even when you’re the only bud bloomed, the only lily floating on the surface.
In fact, the lily of the valley is grandfather clock’s key.
The only one to break through the surface; the code to set time free.
With not much else around, we work with what we’ve got.
But happiness doesn’t exist so give it another shot.
Happiness is something we must create; our own bouquet of eternal bliss.
So as grandfather clock tics & tocks…. tic…. tock…
I toss a single black rose at twelve on the dot…time stops.
Farewell may be forthcoming, but rebirth has already been assumed.
Thanks to you my bouquet has been created, my blissful soul has bloomed.

If I turn back the hands on a clock

it changes nothing, lately.

Nothing really said to my face.

No good-byes at least.

What is the rest of this then?

Ticking, talking of ideas I don’t

comprehend or understand?

Ticking, walking down the same path

with more ferocity, less inherent guilt?

Ticking, shocking that all along

I was worse than the measure of

all these “sins” and confessions.

Ticking, locking myself inside and waiting

Armageddon or Apocalypse.

I smell the rose at beauty's end.
I see the darkness of a friend.
I see princess pure and true.
I see a blackened heart pulling through.
I see a heart with love long lost.
I see the queen becoming distraut.
I see a fairy tale's endless night.
I see a child, pure in sight.
I see an adventure burning in the dust.
I see the prince beginning to rust.

I found an apple that brings eternal sleep.
I found a spindle that puts my heart at ease.
I found my petals lying on the ground.
My clock strikes midnight,
my time is running out.

The old forgotten unwound clock
                                                         is still at least right,
                                                          ­                                twice in one day.