What have you done to your watch?
It's broken. The hour is divided into eighths
like inches.
The metronome pauses half a beat into
the measure
picks up somewhere else
And no one can identify a cause.
Time is ticking like a bomb. Everything's related
except the island where it isn't still exists.
Reality is fickle.
Sixty seconds makes sixty-one, because
something had to come first
didn't it?
Or was It zero?
A hidden number not acknowledged
zero is a ghost, undiagnosed, unreal
unlikely to appeal to the masses, niched
standing in a corner with its back against a wall
sliding to the floor with its hands over its face
a clock stops
it hits rock bottom
glass smashing to the ground, release of limbs
unfurled from confines, reaching out to find
experience
tick, tick