The trials and torments of a clock as it explores its purpose and surroundings and its realisation that time is constant.

Image Credit: 
Public Domain

My back to the wall, eternally awake
I am constantly on display
My hands held high, I quietly quake
And surrender to the day

My prison cell is dark and bleak
The room adrift in night
I hear a tick, both strong and weak
And listen with all my might

The sound, it seems to come from me
A metronomal clink
A jarring whisper, what could it be?
Then my arms begin to sink

Fear overcomes as I observe
My hands begin to spin
Each one rotates a circular curve
A race no-one can win

The fastest whizzes around and around
That tick, it comes from him
How tightly must he be wound,
For him to spin on whim?

My longest arm is not so fast
Content with second place
Each time the quickest races past,
He moves once, with gentle grace

The shortest of my spinning hands
Takes hours to come about
His mind seems to wander to distant lands
Ignorant of the time he flouts

I have no control as my arms rotate
No choice of path or speed
But while I accept my temporal fate
Of my prison, I always take heed

Daylight breaks about the room
Breaking the perpetual black
Piercing through the dinge and gloom
Revealing a deserted shack

The contents lay about the floor
Alone, forlorn and disused
Each one forgotten, required no more
Rejected and refused

As I hang up high, upon the wall
My face unmarked and clear
Is it my fate to fail and fall?
And once more I begin to fear

My slower arms have come to rest
Pointing towards my six
I want them to stop, but cannot protest
As they resume their tocks and ticks

I stand alone amongst the mess
The only moving part
The sound of seconds convalesce
Sounding like a heart

Throughout the day, they continue to turn
On their never-ending line
For some kind of rescue, I begin to yearn
For any sight or sign

My time ticks by, and I start to see
The light begins to fade
The mess begins to hide from me
Disappearing into shade

And then, once more, I hang alone
The day has turned to night
Yet on I tick, a dulcet tone
My never-ending plight

As my arms return to their starting spot
My hour hand spun round twice
I wonder whether this life is my lot,
And how long I must pay this price

My back to the wall, eternally awake
Let it end, I hope and pray
My hands held high, I quietly quake
And know that I have no say

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A self-published author and English and Creative Writing Graduate with aspirations for mainstream publishing and teaching.

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