4. Tick

Tied up in time,

In this hallway of clocks,

There are no mirrors,

Only walls filled with clocks,

But in their white, gleaming faces,

Covered in glass,

I find my reflection;

I find me in the glass

And I look at myself,

And I see in my hand –

What is it I’m clutching?

 – A watch in my hand!

The small pocket-watch,

My guide, my friend,

My keeper, this watch!


And I look away from the me in the glass,

Looking down at the me in the hall,

Looking down at the hand belonging to me,

The watch in the hand of the me in the hall –

And I have my hope; I’m whole again!

But the watch is silent, unmoving,

And I find the back in my pocket,

And I cover her heart of wheels, unmoving


I listen, holding my ear up to her face,

Her back nestled in my palm,

And I wait, but hear nothing,

Feel no heartbeat in my palm

Then, a noise? A hint of a noise?



Did I hear her? I listen, I strain



Her hands twitch suddenly,

She gasps, gears breathing, heart beating



Springs writhe, hands point to five,

She’s alive; God, she’s alive! She's alive!

The End

76 comments about this poem Feed