Morbid Pursuit Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

I suffer this blight,
A morbid pursuit:
I watch the machinism
Of the clocks
Its machine-like susurrations,
Its fidgets, the redundancy
Of its hands
And sometimes I see myself over
Or under one of the clock's
Superfluous arms, a quiescent
Asylum as the night
Stretches into a fine sinew.

The clock still holds
Its pace - unchanged
And unfazed - yet the
Aftermath of the clock's
Constant movements
Continue to flounce
Us off our senses and
Sensibilities, nostalgic
Rue and inhibitions.

The clocks carry
The symphony
Or perhaps the requiem
Of our dreams,
Lost love, blind adhesion
To silken things and
Transient auguries.
I am the only witness
To the meanders of
The clocks and where
The arms take sojourns
When the hearts and souls
Are slumbering in the nocturne.

I need this morbid pastime.
I crave for how it
Causes an inner peril inside
Me - I am astonished fervently at
How I have already resurfaced
Through the pangs of
The clocks as I make ready
For another one.

It's all worth it -
Death and all.