The analog clock is forever stuck at 7 o'clock
The world is as well, since I found the walls may talk
No longer do I hear the old tick,
that prompted me when regret grew thick
When the second hand barred itself,
the timepiece held its breath
Its eyes are weeping, as sorrowful as mine
since it never lost its track of time
My mind still wanders at 7 o'clock:
meandering through fruitless talk
envisioning my dreams as reality
But no more, no more does this mystify me
2/16/2017
YOU ARE READING
Finding AB
PoetryPoetry about who I am, and what I am going to be Struggling to not look back to my past, no matter the difficulty
