Life is a clock,

And we are the gears,

Because clocks do not scare us.

We know that after seven o’clock comes eight,

And after eight comes nine.

If we, the gears, keep on turning, so will the clock.

But what comes after midnight?

Morning hours slink by unnoticed, ignored,

The stray cats of the day.

They are gone with a blink of the eye.

Only the songbirds and the early to rise will miss them.

They tell us noon is the height, our brightest hour

But noon is just halfway between a runny egg and a good omelet.

 The afternoon hours are a burden

They drag us down; they are the twenty pound dumbbells,

 That sit in our basement next to unused treadmills.

At night we put our dumbbells down for the day,

Won’t need them until tomorrow.

Night could be for resting,

But the stargazers and the dreamers own the last hours,

With their eyes full of the wonders of their own minds.

Then there is midnight.

Does the clock keep ticking after midnight?

We don’t like to think about that.

That’s just Clockwork.


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