The Clock

The watched clock never changes.
If only that was true.
Time would be mine.

Instead I sit
as greedy fingers drag away my precious minutes.
A slave to the unperturbed face.
Continuously moving onwards
constantly tracing a circle,
the arms are dizzying as they spin,
the head aches
trying to comprehend the stakes
time entails.

Ex 7th/10

The Personification of The Lost Love

Theres a woman in the corner,
A pink eerie mist creeps around her feet.
Theres a atmosphere of knowledge.
As if to this she is no foreigner.
Her eyes observe.

Her Skin is pale, white and young,
her lips are swollen, red, stark against her icy skin.
Her broken harp, now half strung.
Noone is watching.

She holds the instrument carefully.
She cradles it with her arm,
she shakes slightly, fearfully,
Her eyes remembering.

The garment she wears is perfect,
the dress and viel, simple, white and pure,
The gash across her chest its only defect.
She stares you down.

Her hair is long and greasy,
her posture, cowering and defeated,
her eyes lowered, her gait uneasy.
The others are watching.

The corner is empty,
of happiness and hope,
the image of opposites,
it holds plenty,
but I'm not there to help you cope.

Restring my harp's grace,
lift up my viel,
and look upon an empty space.

Ex

-EJ