Friday, January 27, 2006

Death Of A Clock

The Final Time

The only needle of the clock at the wall
Moved slowly like the pendulum swings
Making a sorrowful face
As if fighting a lone battle
in a race against time
There were no numbers to cheer things up
and no glass mask
covering its dust filled face
It was slow and painful
a mourning, tick tocking heartbeat
knowing the imminent
& yet waiting
for that last tick
before the fall.

Last Rites
I picked the pieces in the morning
and hurried them in a bag
To be thrown down the trash chute
The mortuary of the needless and neglected.

1 comment:

GuNs said...

Hey Shashank...

This reminds me of a prose that I studied in school. It was an essay called "My Watch" (by Stephen Leacock, I think). That was written in a somewhat humourous manner.

This is excellent. Full marks to you !

Where are you these days and what are you doing? I have no update on your status man.