Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Saddened –
he cannot stop looking, watching the thinnest needle beneath
the thick-cut glass move in a left-ish circle.
What time is it?

The corners of his lips point toward Hell, as is the way his tears run, yet he continues to judge each passing second as if it’s his last.
Maybe, he wants it to be his last.


Dragging seems the time, moving slower and slower.
The rotation of the Earth, slower and slower.
To a stop.

He cries out, frustrated with this, and throws his golden sprockets
and springs into the horizon.
He collapses, legs crossed, into the grass, his ears perking to the faint
sounds of the world’s most consistent element.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

About Robert L. Franklin

Ah, the About Me section - social networking's excuse for you sounding like an elitist prick. Hmm... what to say? What to say?
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