The Timekeeper

What do you do
when the hands of the clock
become tiny swords?

When each tick,
second, and minute,
cuts you a little deeper…
is it death by a
thousand hours (even more?)

of rumination,
contemplation,
and the ceaseless spinning,
measured in clicks,
of the timekeeper’s
everkeen loyalty
to carved memories
of pain and death?

There’s no distraction here;
I just keep thinking.

It’s deep,
because the blood
has pooled
since that hour and minute
swung low

and cut me in two.


©️ 2019.

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