The ornate rosewood clock
Chimed 12 midnight;
Tick tock tick tock...
Echoed back lavish papered walls.

Only the soft candlelight
Bore witness to the scarlet stained walls;

The anguished muffled cry
Drowned by the midnight chime.

It knew when to strike.

At midnight.

My eyes were fixed on the wall in front of me,
“The clock is broken, it stopped”
“No, it’s working just fine” he said to me,
“It’s not moving, slow down, you’re going too fast”
“Catch up with me, then”
I can’t
“I ran once” “I ran once, and my clock worked”
“Work harder, catch up”
I can’t
“I think I’ll stand here a little bit longer”, I smiled.

The Poet
by Michael R. Burch

He walks to the sink,
takes out his teeth,
rubs his gums.
He tries not to think.

In the mirror, on the mantle,
Time—the silver measure—
does not stare or blink,
but in a wrinkle flutters,
in a hand upon the brink
of a second, hovers.

Through a mousehole,
something scuttles
on restless incessant feet.
There is no link

between life and death
or from a fading past
to a more tenuous present
that a word uncovers
in the great wink.

The white foam lathers
at his thin pink
stretched neck
like a tightening noose.
He tries not to think.

Keywords/Tags: poet, time, clock, hands, life, death, past, present, thought, word, noose, wrinkle, wrinkles, sag, sagging

tethered to a string
it flies,
ever free
into the early hours of dusk.
the blue and purple triangles
merging as one.  

the times of what has passed,
stolen sweets and mirthful eyes
crinkle in the sunlight.
mindless chatter fills the abyss
as the torrent sea laps at the feet
of the storyteller and the lamb.

little boy, alight with glee
turns to his father
but there,
encompassing the boundless expanse
on the empty field,
not a flower sways.

the sea once turbulent, whispers in his wake.

Sit and listen
To the clock
The ticking
The tocking

Furnace fan
Droning on
In chorus
To the percussion of

The ticking
The tocking
Snapping off a beat
And fan’s low hum

A bird outside
Throws in a solo
A robin calling
For a mate

While I lay on my couch
And start to dream
About summer and
Not being told to stay inside

The ticking
The tocking
Time passing by the whole world
As we wait for the magical day

When the curve is flattened
And we’ve made it through
The ticking
The tocking

These days, the years come slow and go by so fast.
These days, it's hard to make memories and even harder to make them last.
These days, we're afraid of ourselves as much as we are of strangers.
These days, we see everything as a danger
These days, we're getting farther apart even though we're starving for connection.
But the isolation is a great opportunity for self reflection.
Unfortunately, we look at the clock and think we have to rush.
These days, we don't take enough time to appreciate the power of a kiss, hug, or touch.
These days, words have more power than ever. So please take the time to think about what you say.
It may change how people think of you for the rest of your days.