It could be any time of the day,
dim light under an overcast sky
in late May gives no hint,
and the clock on the wall,
stopped, might tell
the right hour
or not, but advices us
we are beyond time,
it wraps us
no longer, moving us,
a marionette, no more.
An island, John Donne,
an island we might not be,
but we end up inhabiting
them, islands beyond time
and the horizon of the world
that goes on
somewhere there,
where clocks moved us
through the daily cycle
and light growing and waning
gently pushed us
if we stopped,
trying the controlling lines
that have now snapped.
30.05.2025
Verse Poetry Poems Poem
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
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