The Striking Clock

Endless pursuits.

Why do I search so hard for your lips?
They have always been in front of me.
Still, I question logic; history repeating
itself, over and over again.

I never noticed how I choke on the thin
atmosphere of your words.
The struggling torture of an undying soul
left with nothing but slain hope.

To that, I give my faith.
To you, I leave my swallowed
form of sanctified dignity,
tied around your finger.

Reel me in once again.

A body never tells a lie; never motions either.
The intended climax behind chattered teeth.
Draw you into the golden silk, looping over
in mass hysteria. Three feet of the longest distance.
Forcefields of wonder mounting onto static tongue.
Rejection seems inevitable but you’re sewn into
the densest fabric that cannot be maintained
and you will never know this.