Plastic Time

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change is inevitable;
the hands will still stutter past
the numbers on this plastic
clock.

brittle bones will decalcify and
muscles will atrophy ~
sad eyes will cry and brighten
and lose their luster.

fingers will sweep away
tears and dial numbers to
chase away demons ~
finally settling down, crossing
a broken heart.

words will metamorph
themselves and don the
disguise of wisdom ~ tones
falling and rising with emotional
tides.

legs will walk miles and
stir the sands of time until
the path has been paved ~
then they will pause, and wait.

a heart will beat ~ staccato ~
until the blood grows tired
of its relentless path through
weakened spider-veins.

this body will slowly crumble
to dust and ashes and
vague memories ~ of a tired
and blasë-stricken girl.

these words will remain on
stark white paper ~ holding
some sort of contrived meaning.

...until my language- my voice-
loses its resonence :and poetry dies.

Created: Jul 29, 2010

Tags: poetry

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