Flowing clouds of gas,
Candles dripping wax
Upon the clock,
Freezing time, holding it still
Hands struggle.
Bearings strain.
Gears churning,
Against the hold.
And as pale white transparent veins;
Flaws appear on the surface.
Growing, multiplying,
And in a crescendo of motion,
The timeless grip is broken.
At best;
The sound is aloof.
Plowing through the rubble
Without thought,
Swiftly advancing
In it's mission.
Aware of only
Fading moments,
Quietly marking
The well worn path.
Sandra Osborne
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/time-119/
