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THE CLOCK HAS TICKED
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Slowly, drop by drop
I watch my dreams dying
their slow deaths,
day by day.
They become more distant,
farther away,
and nothing will redeem them
unless time, once gone,
could somehow return;
unless time, once spent,
could regress.
Show me this circle,
this coming around,
and give me my clock back,
freshly wound;
give me my youth back,
hale and sound,
my freshness facing the world...
Would that my dreams
could yet come true,
but the hands have passed
that hour;
Would that my dreams
could become reality
but the clock has ticked
too many times
too many times
too many times...© 2004 Mary Barnett |
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