Copyright 2003 Athalia.


The pictures of death lined up in neat rows on the wall

Seem tired and faded

By eons of continuous use.

50 years or millions more

You've been adding to the endless shelves

The dusty relics of childhood

And simple trinkets of old age.

Here the world is spinning 'round inside a delicate glass ball.

Untouched by any feelings of complex fear or hate.

And as it's taken in the hands of an interested stranger.

Tiny snowflakes rain down upon the earth.

The grandfather clock that once stood in the corner

Is gone, temporarily, to a nearby shop.

Taken off to be picked apart so mankind can try to change.

Attempting to alter unceasing time to fit human will.

You're wishing for the day when it comes back to its corner

To announce, calmly and proudly, that it's three in the afternoon.

Wishing for its return so it can count down the final moments

Until you lay down among the forgotten rubble

Close your eyes and disappear.