For Those Who Love Most
time has become so detailed
the wall clock ticks and tacks and not just on two hands
there are many sensitive fingers now that rotate around its white belly
of paper and lines have become long and enumerable,
each sound has become delicate
caressing each dash of the second
always taking into consideration what the wall feels
what the roof sees
what all these floors are up to
they do not stop anymore fearing death
the thief who steals all when he comes
like fire consuming the house
not leaving even a stone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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