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They say it’s curvature of space,

event horizons, years of light,

but I just hear the tok, fixed state,

the slower move whenever watched.

I put him down,

it hurries by,

awake we’re back to dawdle hands,

if dandle,

catches up again,

when grouchy, hours elongate.

A crying sky takes mourning time,

a sunny smile,

we prance along,

then spoon-fed makes the candlestick,

takes butcher, baker, rhymer rule.

A mewl, a puke, I’m seventh age.

The clock has stopped, I’m overwound.

Mortality for both at hand.

Published by Spillwords

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