Clockwork

Concocted illusion that we

control and manipulate Time, 

by forcing hands ahead or back,

as if able to finagle

the future or redo the past.

 

Time races to its destiny,

ambition ever on the go,

consistent rebukes: tsk, tsk, tsk, 

run ourselves and the world to ruin,

though the break between tick and tock,

a narrow canyon calming stop.

 

Cunning master of life’s tempo,

Time drums without a melody,

sets rhythm for our marching band,

through lullabies, romantic croons, 

catastrophe, stability,

then beats away to auld lang syne.