05-11-2012, 07:25 AM
Clock watching edit 1
Thanks to billy,erthona, addy,heslopian
She walked the desert, stooped and halting,
broken backed, bare shinned, bare boned;
her eyes were not aligned to time the sun.
Too bright for life, she shunned its glare,
as if the truth of light was just too sure for her.
She, in her shrivelled world, uncertainty a daily constancy;
tick-tock, the clock chimes out from need to need
so time becomes a useless, child-play toy.
Her rhythm, hunger synchronised, precision guaranteed,
counts down to oblivion. She lives for one but dies for two.
See, in her wake, a gift to many, a child too many;
a binding umbilical and reminder of her best forgotten days.
The child is bloated, drawn and sexless; lacking the clues
which clothes bestow upon the infant frame
but more due to the androgyny
of pre-pubescent, famine present years.
The woman stops and turns, a glancing gesture
meant to indicate that love, somewhere, is there;
the tender tear is wasted on the wasted.
The night is coming to their day. Tick-tock.
tectak
2011
I watched her walk; dragged and halting,
broken backed and bone-bare shinned.
Her eyes were not aligned to see the sun.
Too bright for life, she shunned its glare
as if the truth of light was just too sure for her.
She, in her shaken world, uncertainty a daily constancy;
tick-tock, the clock times out from need to need
so time becomes a useless, child-play toy.
Her rhythm, hunger synchronised, precision guaranteed,
counts down to certainty. She lives for one but dies for two.
See, in her wake, a gift to many; a child too many,
a binding umbilical and reminder of her best forgotten days.
The child is pale and drawn, sexless by the lack of clues
which clothes by trait bestow upon the infant frame
but more by the androgeny of pre-pubescent, famine present years.
The woman stops and turns, a gesture
meant to indicate that love, somewhere, is there
but wasted on the wasted.
The night is coming to their day. Tick-tock.
tectak
2011
Thanks to billy,erthona, addy,heslopian
She walked the desert, stooped and halting,
broken backed, bare shinned, bare boned;
her eyes were not aligned to time the sun.
Too bright for life, she shunned its glare,
as if the truth of light was just too sure for her.
She, in her shrivelled world, uncertainty a daily constancy;
tick-tock, the clock chimes out from need to need
so time becomes a useless, child-play toy.
Her rhythm, hunger synchronised, precision guaranteed,
counts down to oblivion. She lives for one but dies for two.
See, in her wake, a gift to many, a child too many;
a binding umbilical and reminder of her best forgotten days.
The child is bloated, drawn and sexless; lacking the clues
which clothes bestow upon the infant frame
but more due to the androgyny
of pre-pubescent, famine present years.
The woman stops and turns, a glancing gesture
meant to indicate that love, somewhere, is there;
the tender tear is wasted on the wasted.
The night is coming to their day. Tick-tock.
tectak
2011
I watched her walk; dragged and halting,
broken backed and bone-bare shinned.
Her eyes were not aligned to see the sun.
Too bright for life, she shunned its glare
as if the truth of light was just too sure for her.
She, in her shaken world, uncertainty a daily constancy;
tick-tock, the clock times out from need to need
so time becomes a useless, child-play toy.
Her rhythm, hunger synchronised, precision guaranteed,
counts down to certainty. She lives for one but dies for two.
See, in her wake, a gift to many; a child too many,
a binding umbilical and reminder of her best forgotten days.
The child is pale and drawn, sexless by the lack of clues
which clothes by trait bestow upon the infant frame
but more by the androgeny of pre-pubescent, famine present years.
The woman stops and turns, a gesture
meant to indicate that love, somewhere, is there
but wasted on the wasted.
The night is coming to their day. Tick-tock.
tectak
2011