Tick, tock, talks the clock.
Smiling Cheshire, it mocks
The masses that tread ceaselessly
To its metronome of nothingness.
Tick, tock, the clock rocks
On the wall. The second hand pounds.
A powerful sliver of an engine
Drives the clock smith to an imaginary end.
Sometimes the second hand
Spins in merciless abandon.
Now and then, it drags like stones
For building pyramids.
The clock strokes the numbers.
Clicking, never silent, it forges ahead,
Trying to keep up with infinity,
Exhausted, it is trashed.
The clock smith is out of a job,
Recycled with all recyclables.
He despises the relentless ticking.
He hides all his clocks under a blanket.
Later, he puts them back on the wall.
Finally, he takes the tick tocks
To the beach and buries them,
Deep in the sand. He hopes for high tide.
When the clocks stop, the waves take over.
The swells pulse and a dolphin appears.
The clock smith wiggles his toes in the sand.
He peacefully sighs, resting in infinity.
Timelessness erases the time.
He lays down in the tide and is washed.
The dolphin leaps, flips, splashes and disappears.
The setting sun heralds a revolution.
Catalina
copyright 2009 Wavepoint Productions
Catalina and Chris
"I produce music as an apple tree produces apples"
Camille Saint-Saens
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