TICK TOCK

At the Edge
or else somewhere
Else, nearby—
I am fixed
with X-mas
crunching
between my ears—
like diamonds dispensed
into the working parts
of revolving gears.
It is here
that I am bent
and breaking—
by a world thrust upon me
like the dinner plate
when I was just a child.
I had no choice.
I have no choice.
I regret every second
of every minute
that each gear head
represents;
Closing on me;
Clamping down;
CRUSHING
until I am fine
white powder.
And then NOTHING;
Not even the sounds
of a clock.

written on 11/08/2010 by: Matt Kane