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The clocks are smaller
In the passing of each second
Ticking down and down
Infantile young farther time
Mimes times passing
Morns your ideals
Spun up in temporary
Figures of transitory
Reverence
Clocks
Who needs ‘em?
Who seeds ‘em?
Ticker-tocker
Tape parade
Grouch bagging Time
yours of course
Marry carry on
Ticking time zero
Filling your pockets
With Hour glass
sands askance
It wooden was
A tree but it clicks
And moves; doesn’t
Grow no more
Just dead matter,
Death spun
Time undone
Soon you’ll fit
Time in your pockets
And sell it for a fraction
Of it’s worth
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