Why Are All The Clocks Broken?

The time is dissolving slowly, melting like sugar in lukewarm water,

But the river flowing out of you is spoiled,

It’s saltier than the tears of your father.

The seconds dribble and form symmetrical frost flowers in the meadows –

A handful of daffodils with conspicuous crowns

And a single French rose.

You don’t acknowledge, you’re busy playing with the minutes falling,

They’re drenching you like rain in a hot summer,

You kneel to them as if they’re your calling.

The thirsty always forget to bring more drinking water to the deserts,

They rely on the streams appearing hourly as mirages,

They sweat and bleed through their T-shirts.

So it’s never said out loud that the art of time is rotten to the very core –

The clocks are rigged for the lucky ones,

They run twice as fast for the poor.

With faux unawareness we live on stolen time, on borrowed yesterdays

Which we pile up so overly confident

Until broken clocks set them ablaze.

The time is materializing fast, burning hotter than the Molotov cocktails.

But the fumes coming out of you are gelid,

Colder than a breeze in an icebreaker’s sails.