Life is propped up textbooks
and rug burned elbows
weeks with not enough days
but too many nights
I remember as a child
lying perfectly still
with eyelids gently shut,
trying to imagine in innocent curiosity
what death might be
or staring with wide-eyed childish wonder
at the ticking grandfather clock,
trying to catch the minute hand's slow movement
And maybe, after more swings of the pendulum
than I had learned to count,
I might possibly even witness
the slight stirring of the hour hand.
Now, the progression of time
is no longer accompanied by fascination
and bright, waiting eyes
Only sugar-drowned blood
that saturates nerve fibers and penetrates organs
shadow the minutes slipping by
Amy Backus
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pendulum-7/
