the clock thinking
it will freeze time.
One in childhood,
one in school,
college, marriage,
birthday.
But the seconds hand
always ticks-
Ebbing, etching
something each time.
And I end up with a
scratched
photo of mine.
Almost forgetting,
mostly forgotten-
the eyes, nose, or
the cheek I once had.
A void left everywhere
for me to scream
my oblivion-
And almost always,
there is no answer
to a why.
Only the faint sound
of seconds chewing
on memories,
polite, persistent-
like an old friend who
stayed longer than
he should.
A friend who let
The frame collect
dust, and the dust
collect years-
Each layer smothering
who I was, and
what become of me,
till even memory
loses its grip
on who it remembers
or mourns.