My clock is ancient.

The gold swirls capture the wooden frame.

Rotted with holes,

rusted gold.

Tall, it leans as if waiting to fall.

My clock.

My clock energetic,

the hands lively.

Smudge, smear and blur…

Working, My hands feared it was the last second.

My hands they work they don’t stop.

Weeks turn into seconds,

months fly into minutes.

My clock does not nor will it allow itself to stop.

It can’t stop.

I stare, the minutes are sixty seconds.

I watch, the weeks are seven days.

I envy, the days add to twenty four hours.

The clocks on the wall,

how do they move so evenly?

They connect and pace together they are a whole, a community.

My heart does not beat.

It resembles,

it imitates,

it copies,

it encroaches on me.

Intruding and trespassing where it shouldn’t.

My heart takes the wind of that clock.

It is my clock.

The hands blur again,

my hands work too fast.

They create a circle so unclear.

Until my hands disappear.

The blur has created an image that they hadn’t ever been there to begin.

The wood is crawling, grasping onto the ground.

Falling upon,

failing,

collapsing,

trembling,

the rot starts to vapor.

As my clock begins to breathe dust,

it, so tired of winding.

The same winding,

That winding.

The same winding continues, it grows.

Faster..

       faster,

           faster,

               faster,

                     faster.

I gaze upon the clocks on the wall,

my question remains the same.

I observe the same patterns.

The clocks on the wall sit with my clock.

A contrast is created between the clocks,

a contrast so extreme it bestows an honor upon my clock.

I do not wish for this honor,

for this honor is the title of an outlier, an outcast.

I still continue to stare.

I do watch.

And I have always Envied.