Clock

A portrait hangs on the white wall,
bordered by the blackest bold frame.
A portrait of Her fair porcelain skin,
a white face, blurred by stained glass.
A portrait of a pure true smile,
shrouded by the cobwebs quickly forming,
in a matter of a week.

All that can be seen of the portrait,
indubitably shown, are integers
circumnavigating my love.
Traveling the globe, hands strewn
across grasping for a way to flee,
still only circle the forgetting figure.

One, I wake and eyes are pried wide,
Three, still fail, but now full of pride,
though false and an obvious defense.
Six, I'm sick staring at the time circle,
Twelve, to sleep, and only hear, her incessant ticking.

Time alleviates, and imprisons,
A lion caged paces clockwise,
as the human mind, that dwells,
on situations that form her bars,

Her soul that cased the encarceration.
Ticks and tocks, echoing louder now,
why has this seemed harder now?

The hands, suffering and tired, reaching out,
but still are bound, to Her portrait in doubt.

Thoughts in cadence, pounding spikes in mind, to the rhythm of Her Clock.