Timepiece Poem by Lynn Stillman

Once, the hands of the clock
seemed to gently caress my face.
Reinforcing the reassurance.
My tears, not yet mature enough
nor bitter enough, to taint my heart.
I thought I was able enough
to manage my time
without having to constantly having to keep,
an eye on the time.
But I faltered, and every moment
seemed to gain in it's momentum.
I could not keep them from passing me by.
It seemed as if every part of the mechanism
were conspiring against me, to work against me.
I could hear the sound of the second hand
taunting me, distracting me
as it swiftly swept
any last chances away.
my peace of mind,
little by little,
disappearing somewhere within
that once treasured timepiece.