Hands on My Clock

Browse By

I am slaving away,
Paving a way,
For someone
I wouldn’t recognize,
When I am no longer left.
These bits that make me
Aren’t for a future I feel,
But to sate my obstinacy,
For everything I am about
Is to become everyone,
In one dismal lifetime.
And I am burning up
My insides –
That’s a perfect place to die,
Where no one can see you,
For who you are
Is still a mystery,
And I appear someone happier,
But that’s something I have learned
From faces and masks,
What all they show
Isn’t what all they hide.
I know the future me
Will be a better me,
And he will remember
What have I faced,
How have I effaced
Myself from what all is life.
I paint pictures
From the pastel of my eyes,
And I fade away
Every day
And night,
I flow into pieces of paper,
They are pieces of me,
And they will remember
My every line
To make my hands complete.
People often look back,
To wallow in memories,
I look ahead and forward
To write mine.
I know I am not even a modicum
Of what I might be one day,
Who is to say,
But my sands of time.

Leave a Reply