A Broken Clock

 

A poet diffuses out his first rhyme - be it of time!

Sonnet of an elderly watchmaker

The pen turning on a slender dime which he did prime

Etching out his miserly time taker

A man working his broken springs tinging with metal rings

Pounding out his last few days

Each gray hair bearing the stings which a broken part brings

The half-glued coocoo to rest he lays

Piles of projects yet to be done awaiting the old one

Ambition not projecting energy

Sitting under a stiffling April sun ready for non-work fun

Fruition to his dead vitality

A paradox of work and play plagues the scrooge all day

Whether to work for wheat or want

Wife begging him to stay before throwing money away

Decision that shall come back to haunt

Poet happy with the plight of an ensuing marital fight;

Also wanting to cast off his chain

Creative poetry brings the reader height into a mind of insight

But racks the sciztophrenic genius brain

He lays down his lowered ink pen in order to remember when

Responsibility was just a dream

He gets up just then as if he wan ten again

To sail down that glistening stream