Consider the clock
As it ticks and it tocks,
Casting the count that it keeps.

It carries along,
Like a stream that is strong,
And it’s calm as it constantly creeps.

The hands will not hurry
From fun or from fury,
Though faster it feels that it flies.

Nor will it wane,
When awaiting the rain,
In a drought as you’re scouting the skies.

The worst of my fears,
From the first of my years,
Did not include the clock;

And in old age,
The final page,
Has come as quite a shock.

The sand in the glass,
Has landed at last.
My time has run its rout.

So I go to my grave,
Like a runaway slave,
To see what it’s all about.

From conception to birth,
From the cradle to Earth,
My life has been recorded.

Let the records show,
For all to know,
I feel that I’ve been shorted.

For time, it seems,
Is a thing of dreams.
A product of our people.

Just a blink of an eye,
From a curious guy,
Who’s watching from a peephole.