Clockwise Poem by Trevor Toews

The world is turning clockwise,
and the ticking doesn't stop.
The rigid hands, like marching bands,
move forward round the clock.

And desperate backward snatches,
yield nothing in my grasp.
The rolling hearse has no reverse,
that bears away the past.

I'd like to live them over,
those sets of circumstance
When, called to rise and mobilize,
I left it all to chance.

I'd like to seize and salvage,
quick words that I have said,
And in their place, to have the grace,
for kinder ones instead.

The aura of the moment
I failed to recognize
The simplest spot I hallowed not,
was actually paradise.

Those golden days I frivoled,
their purpose now I see,
How could I miss the emphasis,
of meaning there for me?

Life is not a jackpot,
the treasure's interspersed
And seldom grants another chance,
as perfect as the first.

So cherish every moment,
savor every drop.
The world is turning clockwise,
and the ticking doesn't stop.