The Minute Hand

The world beats its itchy finger on time,
Striking at the warm heat,
Emitting vocal calls.
Clasp the hands of the golden red clock,
As it ticks through life
One pure sparkling battery.
Dive high to put on the light,
As wet trees sing softly,
whispering through their leaves.
Silent patterns strike,
While fancy bells whistle
Through evaporated rain.
Drying up, yet soaking in.
Huddled, bundled-up in cherry cheese cloth,
Spindled-knitted yarn.
Stripes going zig-zag
With plastic edges,
Blunt band shrill
Warm up the sweat,
Collecting in foreign places
Such as palms;
forehead, and behind the knee.
Keep this structure going,
when bulging glass pink eyes
Wipe away the grime and stare
Up at the sky
All white cloud
And blue patterns.
The churn of shifting voices yell quietly,
Only in one mind.
A quest,
Just started, blinks on reality’s acting cue
As it steps into the limelight (on stage)
And delivers
Its lines.
Processing quick sticker facts,
Slinking those slick black slacks,
Sinking into the abyss.
The clock tells times,
But the heart knows not yet
Of the future.