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OCTOBER, FIRST

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I sit forlorn, consuming the unforgiving and mundane
beat of the old clock.

For Time can freeze, but it never really ends.
In all its glory, perpetually searching for a friend.

The earth spins, as does my head,
as it prepares itself for an eternity looking for a common thread.

I mourn my own sanity, which fell victim of humanity,
Who said it would be at all easy?

Sharp and brooding is the Butchers knife, threatening to upturn,
yet another life.

Now emotionless I sit, as I dream of a better past.
All the while succumbing to society’s trash.

But who to ask, to unmask this mask?

The clock strikes seven, then nine, and then twelve.

And like time, my life continues to fly by as well.
With each “tik” the clock progressively flows faster,
Until the day I return to my rightful master.



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