18 February 2014

One Stroke

One stroke, one ticking clock.
One silent trap of time
Watching hours, days, weeks
Minute to minute, counting, 
One ticking clock.
A passing second, marked by the same thought,
It could be real.
It could be real.
Should I run and hide? 
Let it pass and drown with time.
Magnificence stalking daylight
Taunting moonlight and its shade.
Should I run and hide?
Watch from a distance, keep from view.
Spy from a burrow, behind shaded trees.
I walked along the ridge at sundown - 
Did it see, catch my scent?
Will it follow, or merely gaze upon me
As I stand still, wary of intent...
It could be real. 
It could mean nothing. 
It could be naught but the passage of time.
One stroke, one ticking clock.
A passing second, marked by the same thought. 

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