"A Broken Clock"
A poet captures beauty between the lines
While a writer hold his memories down with ink
But what happens on the day when the lines all run together
And the memories are forgot?
A song is composed of many sounds to harmonize as one
But would it still be a song if every note was the very same?
A photographer steals a second from the hands of time by holding it for ransom upon a slide of film
Yet if the lens was shattered would it truly reflect the beauty of that captivated moment?
An artist paints an array of colors to mirror the world she sees
But if she saw the world in dismal shades of gray would her artwork be the same?
An author draws a picture up in words and molds it into tale
But if Shakespeare wrote in numbers would anybody care?
Although my time is ticking, my world’s a broken clock
Sometimes it’s spinning backwards, yet other times it stops and doesn’t tick at all
Only two hands and twelve entrapping bars that hang there lifelessly upon the wall
Most days it seems so wrong, but even twice a day it’s right
So as the sun now fades away I’ll nestle in the night
Staring at darkness with my broken clock that forever hangs upon my wall
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