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.