Clocks

The clock ticks slightly, hitting ten before I'm ready. How can hours blend into years without me knowing? I can hardly ask the hands to stop, those hands that won't know work, won't make or point or simply rest until their end - or time's, whichever's first. Just circle, circle ceaselessly appeasing something we created, hoping it would free us, thinking freedom could exist in something measured so intently. Time for bed, yes time for bed. Turn off the lights and save this for another day.