Dying Times Poem by Francie Lynch

Dying times arrive
When hands are at ten and two,
And there's no where to turn.
Would I know the time,
Read it on the wall,
See it in the shades lying on the ground;
Could it be an assignmed time,
Say,06: 01 for fifteen minutes
Of infamous celebrity;
It could be part of recorded history
Where a song is written
About gale winds
Running a boat aground;
Someone taking a mid-night stroll
Past their favourite market;
High noon's been a recurring time,
And paces at dawn stare down the rising sun.
Could be in the quiet of a mid-morning breeze
Whisking the curtain veils
After I've set the alarm
For a well-deserved nap.