Tic Toc, a Clock
No chance to wait; can’t hesitate.
Turning to the sixty for a breath, then death.
Turning three score once more and more…
This face ranges with changes to after from before.
It knows no man, but again spins faster and faster,
Having no master in joy or disaster.
Its needles point and anoint each moment with the past.
And as fast its joints are turning ever to the right
In spite of a world yearning, burning for a pause in its flight.
This face rushing to its cause will never be bound
As it paces, yet races with the sound, tic toc, a clock
poem by Gregory Huyette
Added by Poetry Lover
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