The Clock

The clock ticking the steadiness to maddened pacing.
Why do the whispers of chronology wound the ears like vicious blows in the infancy of dawn?
Its arms such vicious incisors of the fabric of life, the cold taskmaster with the gorgon stare.
Teeth inside of it unseen, the grinding molars of gear work, the crushing inexorability of its purpose.
Vast multitudes petrified in its gaze,
its fields of slaves bowed prostrate in its grim stare. World of its bidding speeds out of the hand of mine, the hand of thine,
its heart racing to collapse as the master is rewarded with the lives of its dancers,
marionettes of flesh and blood and bone.
If only the servants had denied the master its controlling gaze,
if only they had consigned themselves to independence.
If only had they the courage to raise the hammers of anthropic might and crush the villainous vizier of time.

by Andrew Raines

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