The clock is laughing.

[Imgormiel]

The clock is always laughing
​

Time. Time is a plague. Something we all share.
Ageing pages with whispering words.
With every paragraph, slowly fading into a book.
Dying and forgotten until something is remembered.

Who hears them? Who reads them?
Moreover, how does the dust come to life?
There are smiles, tears and sentimental things.
Toys for us to play with, in the moment that stops.
Those moments are the encyclopaedia of your life.
Not theirs - Their memory, their life... is yours now.

A cycle that ticks like a clock.
Over and over, round and round.
No one able to do anything about it.
Like some busy scriptwriter, sitting at his desk and typing away.
Each life is a line forced to say and do everything that the script lusts for.
The drama, the anger, the joy...all of it.

Moreover, we are all too stupid to read between the lines.
Now there is the real story.

But the blurry moment, the sentiment, holds us back.
Cutting into memories so ingrained that our fondness of them gives us an excuse for living.

Some of it will be good.
Some, well we get on with it, no matter how it turns out.
Despite it all. There is no cure. We continue to play with it.
Because our greed for more never stops.
With one person blurring into another.

Who is to say what we see is what we see.
Seems like you never live to know...

 

[Imgormiel]

Please remember I wrote this back in 1988. Yes, it has been edited into something that's not what I wrote back then. And no teedles, this isn't the start of a tirade of spam poetry. I thought this was a good one worthy of what I've already posted. And if anyone wants to know, er, no I've no idea what I was thinking about when I wrote it - that's over 20 years ago :s Why don't you tell me what you think it's about...

 

[Imgormiel]

The clock is always laughing
​

Time. Time is a plague. Something we all share.
Ageing pages with whispering words.
With every paragraph, slowly fading into a book.
Dying and forgotten until something is remembered.

Who hears them? Who reads them?
Moreover, how does the dust come to life?
There are smiles, tears and sentimental things.
Toys for us to play with, in the moment that stops.
Those moments are the encyclopaedia of your life.
Not theirs - Their memory, their life... is yours now.

A cycle that ticks like a clock.
Over and over, round and round.
No one able to do anything about it.
Like some busy scriptwriter, sitting at his desk and typing away.
Each life is a line forced to say and do everything that the script lusts for.
The drama, the anger, the joy...all of it.

Moreover, we are all too stupid to read between the lines.
Now there is the real story.

But the blurry moment, the sentiment, holds us back.
Cutting into memories so ingrained that our fondness of them, giving us an excuse for living.

Some of it will be good.
Some, well we get on with it, no matter how it turns out.
Despite it all. There is no cure. We continue to play with it.
Because our greed for more never stops.
With one person blurring into another.

Who is to say what we see is what we see.
Seems like you never live to know...

edited, god damnit, freaking missed a simple piece of grammar ><

 

[TdC]

teedles, this isn't the start of a tirade of spam poetry.

spam poetry? are you a beatnik?

 

[Imgormiel]

spam poetry? are you a beatnik?

Too young to be a beatnik sir