White Fur Red
The white rabbit died,
it was suicide,
his work had failed,
his aging tale unwound,
unbound and lost,
winter frost dreams covered,
he’d learnt his lesson,
but from his teacher’s end,
severed.
He warned of watches,
watching watches to discover,
time uncovered,
exposed and closed,
hands intombed in gold,
the pocket watch,
Pandora’s box,
now everyone has several;
and they’re still all late.
They’re late in thought,
of latent thought,
once held in ignorance,
they can’t ignore hands,
the turning tine stabs deep inside,
infecting hearts,
all turning parts,
man made of cogs,
with cogs.
At war with sunset,
refusing sunrise,
natural cycles forgotten,
of greedy madness begotten,
flawed and false;
they wither to the void of innumerable cloned tick-tocks...
©David Nickle Read 2015
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