Within The Casing Of A Clock Poem by Mark Heathcote

Every day the executioner's block remains-empty
I come one step closer to where submissive-footsteps
are following one another, who'll return and return
again till they no longer lead from behind
but enter the corridors of the blind
never to see the shadowy glint of the sunrise.

The running of the world, life and death itself
is a kaleidoscope, being turned by thought and action
each twist results in something-new-never-to come
or to pass again.
Trapped within the casing of a clock,
turning ever forwards.

Tormented by life's beauty and consumed equally
by its tragedy. The dominoes-are-set
and aligned by all that has gone before
and therefore, some patterns are more prevalent to return
like sandstorms love, we are-sand-dunes
flipped into other directions in a fleeting breath,
but I want to come to rest and stay a short while with you.