The Clock Poem by Ravikumar C.P.

The clock has twelve faces
and twelve sorrows
that drip, drip, drip
slowly, painfully,
painfully slowly
into twelve hearts.
And minutes are sobs
uttered in ageless agony.

If only this clock were to burst
and break into pieces
this world could take a break,
sleep a little
under the white sheet of dreams.
Time would lie scattered
or perhaps in a heap
across the evening mountain.
Free from the clutches of time
we will have some relief.

All this may be doable,
but where shall we bury
the sun and the moon,
now addicts of bad habit?