Clock Bones

She remembers when the hour hand
would smack itself right on the backside
spinning ‘round so fast.
From morning coffee to a brandy goodnight…
breakneck intense
and never quite everything
crossed off the ‘To Do’ list.
It is strange and unsettling
how The Clock has slowed down with Her.
Dragging itself slowly,
with a lethargy and apathy
disgusting and disturbing
in its weight and heaviness of feeling.
Watching its face has become unbearable,
it’s like pulling teeth,
the strain almost blinding.
She’d stop winding it up
but, that would mean quitting,
giving up and being stuck alone
with her own nothing but condemning thoughts.
The ‘Tick Tock’ is mellow at times,
then HAMMER-FALL at others.
Yet, its echo is empty… just like her heart…
and their Bones are connected deeply
by an eternity of wasted time…
lost somewhere maudlin in between worlds.

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world. He yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books Scribblings Of A Madman (Lit Fest Press); Poetry From The Nearest Barstool; and a split poetry book The Raven And The Vagabond Heart with Bethany W Pope. You can also read his poems and stories here! Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.