Poetry

The Clock

A clock goes at a steady pace

Not always heard but always there

Time is constant

But its marker is not

Silent and moving at its pace

It’s almost forgotten

And always there

The ticks move out if tired

Working every day

For so many years

Centuries and millennia

An old man

Looking youthful still

Its incarnations look younger and younger

But it gets older and older

Oh how we love Mr. Clock

But we scold Mr. Time

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