On the Clock of Glass
On the clock of glass
gold hands go round.
Its transparent face
looks back at me,
sees a child,
to whom time
means nothing.
The gold rim on the clock of glass,
is it the sun?
My life ticks, the hands go round,
the sun going down.
The child vanishes,
the body
now old.
The dear Glass Clock,
my friend now, time
ticks my precious life.
©Susa Silvermarie
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