Clocks

The Youth: The clock's face smirks at me. It mocks my glare and irks me. I roll my eyes, it grinds its gears. I tap my pen, it tocks and sneers, its minute hand a finger that flips me off and ticks me off... This class will never end. The Dead: The clock is a useless tool, only taunting fools who let it, only making rules that people fuel by immersing their lives in stringent time. The Elder: The clock 's face pities me. It stares at me with sympathy. It counts each white hair on my head. It counts the lines that branch and spread across my weary skin. It ticks and tricks just like a bomb counting down to an epilogue. It counts my beats like a metronome And tocks in foreign tongues. Still, I dread the day this torture stops. The Dead: The clock is a useless tool, measuring mortality, narrowing vitality. Don't let it tick-tock away the waning moments and fine components of your final days. For Craig's "Talking to Yourself" contest