The ticking time of a hundred hours

Old clocks to new time- ticking with a silent sound
Into the morning waiting for the early owl,
Tired faces lifting the minute hand
The second hand-
Like beggars lifting their feet in clumsy shoes
And the deep alleys insisting on the direction they walk;
The time of another day and the time of elsewhere.

A winter’s breath and another day
And a cold sense and the slowing movement
The springs rusting, the time aging
They all go into the dark with a hollow rumble
Their facades all being worn away
Slowly fading into silence,
Unconscious without thought.

And dying there without hope in the darkness,
But faith is waiting, and the darkness shall be their salvation
And in the stillness there is the ticking
Whispers of movement and the thought of time;
“Remembering- sometimes one must go the way
Of banishment in order to arrive at where you want to be-
Here or there does not matter, one must be still and still moving.”

Copyright © 11/06/2016 lance sheridan®



3 comments on “The ticking time of a hundred hours

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