Pushing through the air,

Like Saran Wrap, it clings

To my tongue.

Gripping the hands on the clock

With the edges of my mind.

Rolling my body out

Onto the edge of an abyss.

Looking down, my reflection

Is captured, and swallowed whole.

Swinging back and forth,

Sitting on a pendulum.

Counting the echoing ticks

Of the grandfather clock.

When will I be free

From slavery to time?


Author: Gordon S. Bowman III

Writer, Visual Artist, Blogger

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