You are a grandfather clock,
grand, looming, and majestic,
with a cabinet of stained ornate timber,
and that entrance which houses all things fantastic.
I will sit before you,
cross-legged as I listen to you regale me with tales
of steady, calming ticking,
a metronome of eternity,
a heavy heartbeat within your formality.
I watch with anticipation as your hands travel
with such expertise,
upon that face,
around and around,
you know how to please,
because the satisfaction which comes with arranged time
is achieved through perching before you,
and taking in all that I can see.
You are the timekeeper of the devil’s march,
you take careful note of what occurs as your
ticks and whirs
count down —
as if any of us were keeping time, but you,
you are aware of your dial.
You are suddenly not as majestic as you once appeared,
you are insidious, you hide behind
antiquity and reputation,
but your age has weathered your assumed
goodness to reveal your primal intent.
Open the door,
loosen that hatch,
what’s in store?
Your plot was intentional.
© 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
All images signed “LMH”
are copyrighted 2019-2020 by Lauren M. Hancock
and all rights reserved.
Image by Wolfgang Eckert from Pixabay
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