Clock
They think of faces with hands pointing at numbers
digits dictating time to people who sit stoic in chairs.
They think of a tick tock, like a trick clock that beats
per second, towards minutes, humming the hour as
each day passes into months, before years become
centuries to eaons.
They think its a one way street because they haven't
cared to walk it back because they have not power
to time travel to a distant time before hellfire spilled
upon mechanisms.
They think its a cycle when its really limitless
how we can hate eachother but also love, and how
loud the hate can sound, so that soothing sounds
of love are but whispers in the crowd.
They think as the digital read outs blink and scream out
signallying the morning bell that they do not need to
be ready for yesterday as moon plots murder of sun
because he is always flashing him his junk.
They think it's silly to ponder it, that time is but a construct,
wristwatches ranked pointless, alongside chains of pocket
watch that jingle and jangle even as they dangle out of
pockets of old timers who still can't fathom that tomorrow
is not forever, but who cast votes as though time is limitless,
because it is, but you're children are not.
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