Life is propped up textbooks <br />and rug burned elbows <br /> <br />weeks with not enough days <br />but too many nights <br /> <br />I remember as a child <br />lying perfectly still <br />with eyelids gently shut, <br />trying to imagine in innocent curiosity <br />what death might be <br /> <br />or staring with wide-eyed childish wonder <br />at the ticking grandfather clock, <br />trying to catch the minute hand's slow movement <br /> <br />And maybe, after more swings of the pendulum <br />than I had learned to count, <br />I might possibly even witness <br />the slight stirring of the hour hand. <br /> <br />Now, the progression of time <br />is no longer accompanied by fascination <br />and bright, waiting eyes <br /> <br />Only sugar-drowned blood <br />that saturates nerve fibers and penetrates organs <br />shadow the minutes slipping by<br /><br />Amy Backus<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pendulum-7/
