Im running down
Slow
Tired
Tick. Tick. Tick
Always watched
Waited on
Groans when im not just right
Eyes on me until the
very. last. Second.
A lesson to be taught
A thing to be calculated
Every day is the same
Running around in a circle
One step at a time
For an inevitable eternity
Clockwise rotation of the implanted grooves
Guarantees a routine agenda that can't fail you
For its reliable pace and its steady flow
Cannot be disrupted but by the hands that show
But what if this routine, was not for me
And this agenda disrupts my preferred spontaneity
For if the clock dictates my ability to be free
I'd rush through life with somewhere
Always having to be, an obligation that would
Prevent adventurous unknown possibilities
If time were infinite and these hands were of me own
I would point in the direction of the risky unknown
And shift my destination by refocusing the mirror
And never look back at the lapsed hours that got me here
I would set my hands on ten and two
And recharge the battery from its original groove
To a new zone where time could freeze
And life would be simple and more carefree
For if time were in the hands of my own
They'd solely be used by the manual flow
Of the wheels that spin with nowhere to go
The heart’s rebellion knows not retreat;
It craves the face
That it sears in its grave,
And waits, and waits...
Though time may leap, yet still it keeps
The rebel’s notion deeply engraved
In its core, in the iron crest.
It claws through dark, through dust, through end—
A vow that rots, yet never ends,
Entombed… yet breathing within.
It carves its way all alone,
Through the chambers—glass and grit—
Where iron gears grind out the breath.
In the heart’s lonely grave
Awaits a heart, bound still,
Not to love, not to grief,
Yet to some unnamed will.
It beats not for sun or moon,
Nor counts the hours of the day;
But like a clock in a hollow room,
It ticks the wasted years away.
It functions by a frozen law,
A clockwork pulse in a chest of stone;
Too deep for any spring to thaw,
It works its logic all alone.
The fox has wings of stained glass blue,
And naps upon a cloud of brie.
He wakes when teapot clouds turn hue
And pours the sunlight into tea.
His tail is made of ticking gears
That hums a tiny, waltzing tune,
He catches falling lavender tears,
And chases spoons around the moon.
He drinks the nectar, thick and sweet,
From hanging, glowing lantern-flowers,
Then flies down to the velvet street,
To count the honey-colored hours.
With lemon whiskers, soft and bright,
He paints the daisies upside down,
A cheerful, fuzzy, furry light,
The happiest phantom in the town.
Sitting in a corner of a hospital,
Reading the weather of faces,
An invisible line divides the people:
One still holds a trace of courage,
Others’ eyes are filled with misery.
Moving toward the haunted silence of ICU
Of an illustrious military hospital,
Amid all the luxurious equipment,
There is a doomsday silence.
Somewhere, a dreadful sound is heard—
Pumping oxygen into an unconscious man;
Its sound—like a ticking clock,
Measuring the time left
Till the end of a world.
In the wards, too, a distinction lies:
Some eyes glitter with fragile hope,
Some, in despair and sickness, grow dim.
It is harsh to breathe
In that mourning environment.
Why are we born,
If the end is this cruel?
Miseries, atrocities, afflictions—
Even here, between breath and silence.
My shadow has decided
to go on vacation,
leaving me with a suit
made of wet paper
and a briefcase full of clocks
that chime backward.
I walk on the pavement
that melts like old wax,
trying to sell sunshine
to a man with mercury eyes.
The stairs in my house
are made of glass whispers.
I climb, but the attic keeps
retreating into the clouds.
My coffee cup is an aquarium,
where tiny, blue fish
swim in the sediment
and tell me to wait for a storm
that never washes.
I pull the solemn
curtain of the day,
but behind it is only
the same gray room
where gravity is just
a suggestion I cannot follow.
The mirror shows
a stranger with my hair
shaping my mouth into a smile
I haven’t learned yet.
I am wrestling with
a phantom made of sand.
Every time I grab him,
I only have less of myself.
The air tastes like
unwritten letters,
and my heart keeps ticking,
a tiny, stubborn metronome
in a world that has stopped singing.
Curiosity brings me here.
To the lonely halls of the museums inner workings at night
The only sounds; the scuffle of a mouse and the gentle, rhythmic ticking of the clocks
The heady scent of freshly polished floors illuminate the way to a small, cluttered room. I silently watch as he stoically works, surrounded by clocks and timepieces galore, as the pendulums melodically swing the hands of time steadily towards the chiming hours
Clocks of all shapes and sizes cover every conceivable space and are overwhelming in their similarities and differences. In amongst the chaos of the room, the curators slow movements are concise and methodic as he gently oils the gears of the clocks. Tenderly polishing faces, as a loving mother would wash their own children's.
His body is lean and stooped, his eyes quizzical and searching. Remedying any imperfections that reach his eye with the grace and speed of a gazelle, alert to his surroundings. The curator is comfortable in this space, he needs neither company nor conversation. He has the clocks which count his steps towards the end.
I softly walk away from this mesmerising sight.
Form: The Vesper Step
The teapot pours out the sky,
The beetles hum us a tune,
We watch the clouds float on by,
And dine upon the pale moon.
I take your hand, the porcelain is smooth,
With every step, there is an ache you soothe.
We waltz above the moss and vi'let beds,
No other thoughts are living in our heads.
But when you lean to kiss my blushing cheek,
I see the metal 'neath your shirt,
I hear your hinges squeak,
It starts to hurt—
Click.
The museum basement smells of ozone and pressed violets. I am cataloging a shipment of Victorian automatons, specifically the clockwork songbirds. Their mechanisms are intricate, tiny gears of brass that mimic a pulse, a heartbeat. They don’t sing, of course—only whir. My job is to ensure the silence of the dead. But last night, one of them turned its head toward the moonlight, a single, sharp click echoing against the concrete, and for a second, I swore the gears were bleeding oil. The curator told me to oil them again.
a small brass pinion
in the palm of my cold hand
starts to tick faster
Time: Out
A ripple in the fabric of the universe.
Forward and backward in time,
It's only been a couple of weeks.
Cycles.
Clock’s ticking.
Breathless, the cold entrance of space.
Two hands without any hint of motion,
a blue star no longer scattering sunlight.
Time: In
Closing the curtains over stained glass.
Lillies and lotuses blackened with acrylics,
a plaid dress with white and red paint.
Nocturnal notes fill the air with uncertainty.
Forward, back, continuous unconscious motions.
Cracks exposed on sidewalks, walls, and my skin.
The things I could’ve done,
we’re gonna scorch the planet in fire.
Time's up.
The leaves’ colors are
Like nature’s hands on the clock
Change and drop tick tock
Let's face it
as sure as tock follows tick
(be it ever-so quick)
then tick follows tock
when hands dial in circles
and wind around the clock
unless the spring is broken
the world will spin
no matter the weather
or shape it's in
at least in my lifetime
as for better or worse it survives
ad infinitum or until
eternity eventually arrives
pull the veil separating day from night
and with a stroke of grace
beauty's canvas renewed
the cycle is immortalized
behold the rhythm of the universe
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Destiny spins its clock
Have we met before?
In a world unknown.
With erased memories
We went on living
Without realizing,
How meaningless it was
Until we met again
And then on
Began a meaningful journey.
But what happens
When it loses its meaning?
Will everything come to an end?
Alas, a full stop to a sentence, completes it;
Just like how it was for our journey.
All I can hope for
Is it to end on a good note.
Destiny spins its clock once again
A life purpose unserved.
In cogs and gears, her heart does beat,
A clockwork girl, both strange and sweet.
Her eyes, like polished brass, aglow,
Reflect the time, the world below.
With gears that click and springs that chime,
She measures moments, day and time.
A copper bodice, sleek and tight,
Holds secrets in the fading light.
Her hands, of bronze, a delicate dance,
Point to the hours, a fleeting glance.
A winding key, a silver thread,
Keeps her ticking, unsaid, unled.
Amidst the steam and smoke-filled air,
A whisper of her presence, rare.
The city's pulse, she knows it well,
Her clockwork heart, a silent spell.
But in her gaze, a sadness hides,
A yearning for the world outside.
To feel the warmth, the human touch,
Beyond the gears, beyond the clutch.
For though she runs, on time's own whim,
A part of her, forever dim,
Yearns for a soul, a beating heart,
To break free, from the clockwork art.
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