As I try to write
The tick tock
Of the clock
Measures my day and night.
At other times
Lost in rhymes
I hear it not.
The beat of women’s feet
Has measured my pleasure
And pain. But the clock mocks
Us all. We fall
In love and lust,
And time turns all to dust.
My clock chimes
On a spring day.
Women and wine
Are mine,
But my springtime
Has passed
And the fast
Tick tock
Of antique clocks
Appeals not
To girls in heels
Who do not
Feel their clock
Soon must stop.
A house of stopped clocks .
Where, when,
He attempts to wind them,
Wise men
Say, “why not try
Some new batteries today …!”.
I heard birds
And the clock,
And wondered,
When, and where
My heart
Will stop.
The slow
Tick tock
Of the inexorable clock
Says “all must go”
In the end,
Though some pretend
‘Tis not so”.
If my clock antique
Could, somehow speak
What would it say?
Yet, it’s chime
Speaks of time
And my brief day.
I have just uploaded my April Author Newsletter which can be found here.
My clock has stopped.
It’s chime
Has ceased.
One day, eternal peace
Shal be forever, mine
And thine.
K Morris - Poet 