The Brass Hands

As winter sets in, here is some poetic musing on the force of time and how fast it moves.  Enjoy!

Tick, tock, tick, tock
That’s the sound of the old brass clock
I breathe deeper, it chimes the hour
It has no feelings, it does not cower
I sit and grip the arm of my chair
It sits across from me with a blank stare
It has no eyes, yet I feel them there
Boring into the mask that I wear

Time can see through me, forever it waits
I look into the face of my destiny, my fate
It has all the answers, but of course it won’t tell
It knows all of my secrets, knows them well
I remember the past as I stare at the dial
I want to set this clock back to when I was a child
But as I search on the old clock’s face
There’s no number for yesterday anyplace

I stare at the clock, my eyes grow wide
Because of time, my loved ones died
Bring them back, I demand of the clock
It answers my order with a simple: tick, tock
Clicking the moments of my life away
They all melt together into one shaky day

Time blows away like the desert sands
Behold the one who could stop those hands!
The thin, brass hands on the face of time
Even they look aged and worn with grime
But the clock ticks on, it cannot slow
Much like the river cannot halt its flow

I think of my youth that this clock took away
Much too fast, I’m afraid I must say
I think of my future this clock holds in store
It stares quietly, tick tock, and nothing more
Now here I am, all alone, with the clock
Whose only words of wisdom are tick, tock, tick, tock
The World, the Universe, the great depths of space
We’re just a gone second on the clock’s old face

M.B. Henry

All photos by M.B. Henry.  For more, please visit my photo gallery.