The key to my clock
Is cold to my hand.
I can command
My old clock
To cease it’s chime.
But no rhyme stops
The sickle’s chop.
The Key to My Clock
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The Key to My Clock
I keep
The key
For a time
In a tray.
Will people seek
For the key
When I go away
And, perchance, finding this rhyme
Think on old Father Time
And me?
K Morris - Poet 