This Clock

This wine
Is not divine.
Yet it is good.
The sun may shine
On me tomorrow.
And the clock on the wall
Has no will at all.

Nameless women survive in a rhyme
And time
Would laugh, if it could
At poets who obsess
Over their reputation,
And the unknowing tick tock,
Of the uncaring, ensnaring clock.

2 thoughts on “This Clock

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