Clock~tower Poem by Nika McGuin

Out in the middle of the forest
surrounded by thick thorn-laced branches
and bent weathered trees older than time itself
there was an antiquated clock tower
high enough to scrape the sky
inside lived a bitter and lonely old maid
holding a grudge, more than a hundred years old

Time is a fickle thing
in matters of the heart
when we've gotten over something
it suddenly seems so far away
so much longer ago than it really is
but when we're deeply hurt
time seems to stand still
we live our lives in the past
stuck in the same year and month
as the hurt which occurred
the hands of time get stuck
at the twelfth hour -
each chime, a repetition
of the painful memory

Sometimes, it's hard to get out
that's why so many people
live trapped, in their own
tailor-made clock towers
watching on as the world
continuously changes below them
meanwhile, the interior
of the clock tower is
cobwebbed, dusty, and ever-same