poetry critical

online poetry workshop

An old soul, the heart of a clock

There's a grinding
                  Of my clock teeth
                which every once in a while
              get retouched with metal,
                       sometimes plaster.
                  There's a ticking
            Of my clock heart
        That's become less audible, in time,
              or perhaps with age?
              Maybe the grit of the gears
          when you walked, in the past
           (you were a teasing child)
             changed the way I ticked.
              The teeth grew bigger,
              and wore off the gloss
             of a finished childhood,
                 leaving me open,
                prone to blemishes.
              Awkwardly, my internal affairs
               were acting up.
                   My metal heart would skip
                            as if to keep up with you,
         swarmed around by your large crowd
in a sea of heads you were gone just as soon as you came,
        not helping, my clockwork eyes were not so clockwork.
    My keepers surely considered putting me down,
           I never kept a right sense of time,
                      and was late on many occasions.
               they couldn't just fix me,
and I refused to see myself
                                           as broke.
                   Like clockwork,
           you showed up in shifts of my life,
             each time outside the grasp of
               my blackened hands, and
   I would search your face
             for numbers that weren't there for me.
                        There was one time
                 you were right in my class
                       of status, type, and interest.
              It was then
that we were able to see was was behind each other's faces.
               Neither of which could call time,
one still running much faster.
    I got your number,    but,
                   too late to use it.
                                One running much slower.
         Your face has changed again, and finally,
                                      turns away,
                 the only reminder left?
                 a digital recreation.
            Sometimes I wonder as I'm looking
                    with altered vision
           if we will ever collide like, in the past
                   (you were such a tease)
    so very fickle, always changing at the last second.
                     But then, aren't I, too?

3 Feb 07

(define the words in this poem)
(3 more poems by this author)

Add A Comment:
Enter the following text to post as unknown: captcha


 — unknown

It wasn't that confusing...was it? o.o
 — Bees

 — Bees