Beyond the Clock

What sight of mind so slyly, solely,

Turns the ticking timepiece, only,

To refine, the reaching, wrapping, 

Hands of man, bound by his boney,

Breaking body, to the ticking, clicking clock,

With a fancy face that fails to time,

The same as all the cells of man,

Will surely grind, ground back,

To distant lifeless dust?

What a pricking mock, 

The ticking clock, 

As it tells by bells and whistles' whine,

That death will soon ensue in time,

The same as all the rivers wind,

Down mountain passes, sewing slashes,

Slowly stealing dirty masses, of massive, 

Rocky mountaintops, sent to sail,

Beyond the docks,

While wandering waves will wait,

And watch, and tidily tailor all the rocks,

Into the smooth sunbaked sand,

That slips between your toes unplanned.

Simply said, we writhe in well-worn, 

Weary thoughts, chasing foolish fleeting forms,

Caught by clearly common plots,

Dashed apart when we are torn,

But by the one that turns the time,

Ceaseless cycles resound this rhyme.

From dust to dust, from mind to mind.

What is death to endless time?