Monday, November 03, 2008

The Forever Split

My cold pupils stared slowly on
With the clock torturing every
Last second by hand, by stiff
Black hands on a white face.

When did my hollow eyes
Become the sole proprietor
Of my thoughts? When did time
Cease to be the purpose of

The clock.
  Tock. The bell, that
Harsh ring of freedom for Boys
For girls who can afford the
Luxury of wasting their school

Time, rings on with its lackluster
  Their hands keep counting
Like Sisyphus, the numbers up
The long graduated mountain of

  Father Time has a white
Beard, while his sons-in-law
Rake up those colored leaves
In spirited piles in the gutter.

Those good old American boys
With their chariots that come
From a religious ajar to the
Christian closed for the Holiday.

What time is it? They can’t see
Past their grubby faces, they
Have no eyes to see the hands
That point to the left.


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