Sunday, March 18, 2018

Complications (Revised)

My body and I are a broken clockwork,
we no longer mesh correctly. I'm losing
time, but I feel stretched across it, mind
jetting, body        lagging. I do not know
what time it is, everyday. Finite health
is time through fingers, precious minutes

lost, hours forgotten, body a collection
of hourglass. To know this countdown
of living disabled, body made of alarm
clocks, imagine you are in a dark room.
Time passes, but how much? Is this day?
Night? You don't know. No one can date

stamp it, not even people that spent time
to be doctors. They say hope for calendars,
most days I am time-piece, bleeding minutes.
Main spring? Torsion spring? Who knows
how my body's supposed to work? All I know
is, it doesn't. How do I tell tick tock doctors

my gears grind when I don't speak watchmaker?
They can't know what I know my body knows
Doctor, I am this flawed movement, trapped
inside dented case. I am clock face, probably
set wrong, slowing, losing time as you watch.
If my clockworks worked I'd have more time

to explain it to you. Now, if you ask me again
how I am doing, I will lie,  then check the time
on the watch not on my naked wrist, and say-
apropos of nothing- "Did you know, the insides
of an old watch is called 'the complications'?
Even watchmakers are surprised it all works."

No comments:

Post a Comment