The clock looks down with tsarist glee
its beat like that of metronome
to dictate soulless steps by me,
demanding me to soon succumb.

My hour shan’t fit conformity
with measured clock-hand spin.
Hour’s length is not outside of me.
It’s what I let occur within.

Unpleasant tasks, the minutes glide
like the stretch of eternity.
Yet one sweet hour by lover’s side
speeds by me instantly.

So, ticking clock, just hide your face,
my time is mine to spend.
I shall not enter in the race,
my minutes I’ll not lend.

Gus Daum


About degus221

A Kansan who has migrated to Oregon.
This entry was posted in Poetry, Reflections and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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