A Poem About Nearing The End
She listens to
The bell moan
As if the town clock
Felt pain.
Its voice drifts
Across the roofs
And glides through
Her window
Like mist of silk.
Its machine grinds on
As cogs turn gears
Soullessly.
Like cracked clay jars
In the desert
That leak out the last
Of its wine on the sand,
So its graspless hands
Only point.
She reads its face
Expressionless,
And measures
Without line
How near is the end
Of our time.
(c) A.E. Dozat 2/28/15
