My face


One, two, three, four, five. I’m always working. Always on the move. There’s a lot to do. Watch over the young. Motivate the fit. Look after the old. There’s lots of pressure. They rely on me.

I’m adaptable. Provide all their needs. I run before some. Crawl after others. I do what I can.

They’re so ungrateful. The lovers hate me. But with them I fly. I reach out my hands. They just turn away.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…

I stand by them all. I’m there when the sweet showers of spring melt their cold despair, and when the rushing golden winds sweep away the still, sultry summer haze. I warn them of the oncoming darkness, and call to them in the mornings through their dreams. Regular, steadfast, loyal, I mark their hopes and promise them a future without asking for anything in return, requiring nothing but a small, quiet space in their lives. Yet I am despised – they glare at my face and wish I was gone, wish I would stop, wish I would leave them alone. I can’t take it anymore, I think I’m breaking down, I need help, somebody, anybody…

One, two, three, four, five. I think I’m OK. Someone helped me out.  They’re walking away. But at least they helped. I am steady now.

Sometimes it just hurts. But this is my life. They cannot love me. I don’t have a heart. There’s only my face.

See, I’m just a clock.


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