On a sticky summer afternoon,
An ancient rosewood pendulum squeaks,
Ever a slave to gravity,
Back and forth, between past and future.
Overhead, blades chase each other,
Moving as in molasses, with plaintive wails.
Sunlight charges in at a slant,
With the Light Brigade’s passion,
And quixotic purpose.
In its beam, a multitude wander,
Furiously, feverishly, going nowhere.
Time is as a fly, so nimble,
Stuck in a honey pot, powerless.
Eyelids flutter open,
The reverie is a morning mist,
Vaporizing with the sun’s kiss.
In the sky, hangs a sullen moon,
Pale, pallid, cold and accusing.
Overhead, blades chase each other,
Moving as in molasses, with plaintive wails.
Ancient rosewood is kicked away,
The jute groans its exertion.
Gravity, its own slave,
A jerk, rending manacles,
Back and forth, past and future escaped.
The pendulum stops, mourned by none,
Mourning time, no more.
Time remembered, time lost, time escaped.
Disclaimer: This piece is a product of my imagination and its emotional content does not reflect my actual state of mind.
