As a child I had the privilege of unused clocks
Resting silently in the core of my hand
As I curiously wound them up
Yet, childish fingers did not know enough —
Careless decisions would burst them into dust.
So I spent each day attempting to reconstruct, but
Disappointment was my reality, and rust was all I could smell—
It was a heap of timed failures decomposing in my well.
And now, my wrinkled fingers wobble too much
To shift the last gears of a clock— untouched.
I sit in lonesome silence, and my heart’s patter shifts to a thump—
I am witnessing, for the first time, the steady sound of
Picture Credit: Talk Android