Hanging Between The Hands Of The Clock Poem by Sarah Mkhonza

It is between the hands of time you lay.Right next to the long hand your
feet walk to your next errand. Touching
the world with a soft kick minute by minute.

Next to the shot hand is your head, sitting on the stool of time, quiet
and guilty. All your life like a puppet
you hang on the guillotine of time. Wondering if the hanging is real. Seconds
become minutes. Hours, weeks and then years.

Your fear of the master called time is real. As your stomach rumbles you see
one truth. You did this to yourself. Made
the rope and stood in position for what?

Next.Your soul sits on the doorstep
of time wondering.Hoping you will repent of this blindness. Your walk can sing to
the sound of the Ling hand. Your dance is
a choice. It began on the first hour, you
yelled and time heard you had arrived.Will
your journey be a tribute to yourself or
time, your master?