A sonnet in time


below the edge of icy vows of old
here lies the blood line of a rusty clock
where tales of thrill and rue are quietly told
where promises were often etched in chalk.

but underneath the false facade of fate
a layered truth began to plan its flight
a brimful dream of what the trip awaits
could scarcely keep it wakeful in the night.

no grander clocks could sensibly define
their complex interlock with hourly chime
as thankful as their souls could not align
how when their own watch dies, on goes still time.

all scornful lies of life that they adorn
the patchy quilts of time, long dead and gone.

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