Black Indian arrows/dirty hands of grandfather clock
Strike/shoot down nine after nine,
in a way that sends themselves spinning,
frantic and out of control.

I feel for it and open my -
hands to stop its own,
watching blue butterflies and my conscience
once well kept and proper,
take astronomic flight -
escaping my palms to a height
too far for my feminine reach.

And just like that, the clock unmasks itself.
You, I should have known.
The wood was more of a whispering rope,
begging for a knot and chair,
the age lines, just mocking inscriptions.

The tick tock was a dare, and
I fell for it, let it track my pace.

Then, just when I think I’ve composed myself,
you grow back your feet, and stomp on the
floor -
Flipping a plank, I’m flying
into a wall, it reminds me
of the night sky
violated by telephone lines,
tackily striped,
the style crusty and old.

Never had to battle a time keeper,
my first true competition and you croak
out the past, present, future, and everything
in between, solid moments of defeat
which hold no true stance, just dull medals
only gold plated, questioningly worthless.

Long term and history says I’ll win it, although
short term and the present says I’ve already lost.
but the only term relevant is my determination,
and we both know that’s a cage-biting beast.

So let’s see how long time is a weapon
before we’re lost in a magicians hat -
a concept that speaks in a foreign language,
unfamiliar with equations,
variables
(I am one).

I’ll tear the wallpaper to reveal
an unmathematical bliss.
It will melt your minutes,
scrape at your seconds
until there is no meaning in the word
“Wait.”

 
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