I fear the ticking sound the clock makes,
and the speed at which it’s hands swing,
stringing out the smaller moments,
and allowing the larger ones to be flung away.

The ticking, like taunting
the swinging and swaying a cause of mass disarray,
and the string and it’s unravelling in all the wrong ways
was never intended by me, that wasn’t my vision
of what it could very well have been sewn into

And as string becomes streamers around this time this year
they flutter to the ground in a way I don’t recall
clicking the very same as the clock cozied up on the wall
where my eyes seem to find comfort…

...but they find really anything but…