The Short Hands Of Broken Clocks...

The short hands
of broken clocks
all pointing it out
Not the time of
  day or night
but what it comes to...

In hypnotic micrometer motions
tic, tic, tic... tic, tic, tic...
Perpetual pendulum-puppets
marching to the madness
of carbon-copy chromatics
as time torments the travels
of synchronized second-hands

The hands surrender seconds
of time, or second thoughts
Adding up the increments
like connecting little dots
of stories without plots

Funeral bells will sound
as the echoes of fallen trees
with ears nowhere around
Though the timeless eye still sees
  the forest through the trees
  the lifetimes in second-hands
  the stillness that still stands

The short hands
of broken clocks
all pointing it out
Not the time of
  day or night
but what it comes to...

Let time keep to itself
Let the second-hands
keep counting in circles &
continue revolving around
the same dizzying clock
Let them tic away at nothing
Let them tic away at each-other 
instead of giving them the time
to continue ticking off