Looking at the clock laden in rue
with eyes worth saying it is flooded within,
And obnoxious responses of slothful aging
Clenching every limb yet with a raw smell sealed.
Carrying the feeble body of saintly failure.
The unfamiliarity of dusk with a cup of hesitation;
A plate full of regretfull rereconbrance of youth,
Pitifully pondering
Whether to give in to old age and the vulnerability
Or wake up to sheer acceptance.
The head faller numb over two quivering hands
That know no longer to sheild
For one or more tionid hours of the feverish evening.
The hour hand onarch as slow as the ache to fade
Old spine devouring shivers down an oak chair.
When the minute hand gracefully less indoleont
clains to bring a loathsome demise.
When the eyes shift forth the other hand;
The second hand, fast, as that fear, seeps in the heart.
It ticks round the quadrangular clock.
With💙
©chrysanthemum