foul wasteland, nestled between my heaven & clocks
themselves speckled with old failures, thin metal veins;
back toward their blank abyss you beckon,
with old sevens to grandfather nascent plans.
heaving silence in momentous nothings,
back and forth between my heaven & clocks,
you sling a senseless sort of small remembrance
snatched from somewhere in the distance.
'neath one wispy strand of old times you stand,
siren, and the ticking and tocking never ceases.
it only drones onward, ever onward, grating on my heaven.
all the while old clocks march in line, keeping time.
JHS
