Something Borrowed
Our clock has begun
to show its age.
Seconds slip
between its fingers,
shine with memory,
shatter softly.
I do not know
if the minutes lost
have withered
to nothing
or if they, like us,
live on.
Our clock has begun
to show its age.
Seconds slip
between its fingers,
shine with memory,
shatter softly.
I do not know
if the minutes lost
have withered
to nothing
or if they, like us,
live on.
love the freshness of the personification