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,
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 https://spillwords.com/recurring/