Ana knows I can't be alone,
So she will mourn by my side,
While I count down
From the start
When...
Love lived a decade ago;
Calendar dated 10th century,
Top chest smeared with last millennium's dust and dried rose petals,
Bottom shelf stacked with the Recent epoch's chronicles in scrolls,
And I wrote this anecdote during the late Eocene,
But I am now an era old;
Too short of memory to remember fairytales,
Too outgrown to believe magic tricks or play a game of chance,
Too outworn to have my heartstrings plucked,
Too callous to bear a soft spot,
Too archaic to belong in any contemporary world,
Too ancient for a technological revolution.
Fixed in a period that won't age,
Absent of a timekeeper, missing every timepiece;
My antique mind couldn't only smarten up for
This relic of a body, camouflaging skin-deep among prototypes,
Preserving the fossils of my endangered heart.
Maybe one day a noble clocksmith will come
And build us a time machine.
Maybe I'll have my youth back
When Ana teleports back to Erin,
Where her misplaced soul will finally be home with the gods,
For I think I'd do fine without her anymore,
As I land inside a time capsule,
Or wake up as a hand-me-down,
In time at long last with today's pendulum clock.
I'd be lucky if it's the clocksmith who takes such artifact.
But until such time warp,
Ana knows I can't be alone,
So she will mourn by my side,
While I count down
From the start
When...

Does she sound familiar to you
she is sound of familiarity between strangers
You can call her the vintage sound
The intrusion that can’t be ignored
Tick tock ,don’t save the last dance for later
Repelled from the future to stay away from the present
Her Pendulum swing in search of happiness
she said we all need the clocksmith to repair our broken piece
Polish and shine me all you want without my sound am nothing
she might be an unpleasing sound to a married ear
forgive her if she craves for attention ,getting old and rusted is not a perfect look
Tick tock sees herself in the mirror only her reflection was no more

I found gods voice
In a clocksmith in Rockland.
I asked him how to turn back time

He said
"Careful use of your hands."

I smashed clocks like pills
credit card scraped sprigs & sprockets
into lines of chalk powder.
Just to hear more of his gospel

His shop closed.
Rain washed pink pastel rivers
down my childhood home
street gutters like blood
Glitter became shattered glass.
That same chalkdust
fashioned into A body outline

Ask a child
"What is your favorite creation?"
Witness the passion of a thousand poets.
Fade with age
Hands stretched out for paint
Handed pills.

He said sprig sprocket dust

"What is your favorite creation?
I can guess your mother's."
Took her 9 months

Timeless old crinkled construction paper
colorful paints in the shape of your fingers

I Cover my hands in blood
From the shattered glass
Press my fingerprints
To the timeless colors
I've forgotten
Where to place my hands.

Clumsy with time
Leave ****** handprints
On my mothers fridge
My lovers

Face down in sprig sproket dust
On my final tick
I hear a clocksmith tinker
One last lullaby

"when you run out of canvas
You will stop drawing blood
you will still leave fingerprints"

"What is your favorite creation?"
Was it worth the time?

The whole of everywhere and all that is in it,
An astronomical clock with infinite minutes.
A number of variables from which we can choose,
Liberty of action but limited to use.

Tick the box for the incompetent party,
You wish to fill the void,
Fill it with bureaucracy; needless and ineffective.
To replace what we’ve destroyed.

“God save the Queen”,
For what’s to replace her?
Praise her power and majesty.
As a substitute saviour.

As grand as we make them,
Failure, although we may give rise.
Too far left or too far right,
We will ensure their demise.

As the world will fight,
Over power and control,
It oscillates between us,
And those who seemingly rule.

Magna Carta’s text; merely a width,
Returning control back to the side,
From where apparently taken,
But not where it hides.

A clock’s winding continuation,
missed by the clocksmith’s hand.
Or the battery’s replacement,
Not afforded within one’s band.

Prevailing randomness would make way,
For chaos, no order and instability.
Although from this the whole of everywhere did begin,
Its retraction is caused by misuse of our liberty.

You might ask a clocksmith
how to fix your broken hands
Or you could keep the ones God gave you.
Small, clumsy,
Great at golf.