Grind against the stain of your hammer
The smile of blood judges your tools
Feel the wrath of an angels stare
As you tootle off home, his blessed wings stretched
In jest as they decompose and crumble. You did your job marvellously military man

Time flies fast,
like a little bird,
swinging trough the sky,
never looking back.

Time is forever,
but never do you realise in time
that the present is not present anymore,
but is now past.

Time melts in my hands,
slipping trough my fingers,
only remaining the everlasting trace of memory,
staining every little crevice of my hands.

But memory,
memory remains,
persistently present in your mind,
always haunting every little image,
and every little thought.

never spit and dance
on the graveyard of a sheep,
who knows if it is an old clothing
of a wolf on watch.

IA

too lonely to beat
too painful to bear

hold on tight
and make it right

take off the mask
and let them watch

they are the judge
to make things right

The Watch
by Michael R. Burch

Moonlight spills
down vacant sills,
illuminates an empty bed.

Dreams lie in crates.
One hand creates
wan silver circles, left unread

by its companion—unmoved now
by anything that lies ahead.

I watch the minutes
test the limits
of ornamental movement here,

where once another
hand would hover.
Each circuit—incomplete. So dear,

so precious, so precise, the touch
of hands that wait, yet ask so much.

Published by The Lyric, Carnelian, Net Poetry and Art Competition, Poetry on Demand, Famous Poets and Poems,  ImageNation (UK). Keywords/Tags: watch, hands, watching, time, movement, circles, cycles, circuits, minutes, limits, wait, waiting, death, incomplete, reunion, companion, ahead, night, bed, moonlight, crates