Forgotten Clock Poem by Brian Arguello

My diverted eyes forget the clocks.
Like a black top - outlined in chalk -
The sky has figures and stories that linger.
I'm tempted to reach to point out each with my little finger.
The night is a singer,
Through the wind and the trees.
Can I prolong the night please?
Prolong the blanketing black tarp,
Penetrated by the moon light so sharp.
So I've forgotten the clock that ticks a tock
To walk my walk down Fiction's path.
Lay instead with the flow of story and herds of words to be read.
Lay instead in a maze full of soft backs and hard bindings.
In each writer's birthed glory or shambled story I mine for golden nuggets of truth
Or the ember of a feeling in each peeling of a leaf.
A literary thief.
Leave me here in the December chilling
Because I've forgotten the clock that ticks a tock.
There's a knock at the door?
The carpeted floor rolls and flows in a darkened room like a darkened shore
Like laying on a darkened shore,
Overcome, taken, laughing.
There is no knock at the door.
A rapping at the dirty window
A singer
Wind
Trees
No winged visitor - only a tease.
Thoughts tumble like blowing brush.
Lips pert and hushed but there are scenes that rush, dense and loud.
Out on the skyline, where the hills meet thin, fine clouds, peach pink seeps out.
I've spun the key so the mind would open.
I forgot the clock that ticks a tock; the clock is broken.
I'm left with a mind to use
And both eyes to abuse.
No trace of time,
So I've no time to lose.