Time

The Hand is arranging the stones in parallel
With already collocated line of Time,
It is getting tired of this everlasting cycle.
Melancholy creeps up and fills the open grassy field
While the ticking of the clocks is resounding
Around the rope made out of flesh.
The eye is attached to it as it absorbs
The endless leafage of fear scattered on the ground,
Giving it power to never stop swaying across the landscape
Or across the small fields filled with sounds of fading trees.

Reviews

[Kim S.]

Around the rope made out of flesh.
The eye is attached to it as it absorbs
The endless leafage of fear scattered on the ground,

wonderful part right here, This is amazing. enjoyed this write