Clockwork, a poem by Abhinav Aradhi

 

Clockwork, a poem by Abhinav Aradhi

Time flies,

Is what all the people sing.

They’ve gathered at some headstones,

And the world is listening.

 

Time flies,

And humanity forgives,

Like a soft, comforting blow,

On a long festering wound.

 

Time flies,

And bodies go rotten,

But then they regenerate the soil,

And suddenly the world is virile again.

 

Time flies,

And we start to look past the curtains,

At the people scarred by one another,

And a house plagued by radioactivity.

 

Time flies,

Is what all the people sing.

They’ve gathered at some headstones,

And the world is listening.

 

Someone’s placing daffodils on the graves,

And someone’s sobbing up a storm,

But there’s an uneasy peace here in this somber niche.

It’s almost a haunted paradise.

 

Time flies,

Is what all the people sing.

Their voices ring out past the poles,

And reach the starstruck eyes of some teen girl.

 

Time flies,

And so do we.

Soaring on, beyond our wildest dreams.

As cliche as it may be, we believe it.

 

Time flies,

Like little flurries of doves,

Streaking the sky like harbingers,

Of a time unheard of to us.

 

People die,

And we all just move on.

All that’s left is some paltry headstone,

And an empty promise to change.

 

People die,

And time flies,

And there go the waterworks.

Isn’t it all just so futile?