An Ode to Time
THE large, globular surface of a black-rimmed
Clock greets me with a malicious stare, its
Two shadowy hands monitoring providence
Like a spiteful child guarding a favourite toy;
Their lewd, angular posture seemingly immobile
Beneath my weary gaze. I sense your presence
Subconsciously, even when I am not glancing in
Your direction in a naïve display of repetitious
Futility. Ticking, always ticking. There is no end
To it. This circular dictatorship is an artificial
Imposition foisted upon man by man himself.
Foolish are they who stand waiting on station
Platforms for trains that dare to break your laws.
© Troy Southgate