Click-Clock, Tick-Tock

[contention]

I.

There he stood, here we stand
Face in the pendulum
Pendulum as man;
Rock and rock,
What gated crib
Does moan and groan
By sway to live?

Preaching story, two lines in
Over
And over
And over again;
Rhetoric verse doth search so dwell
By light nor dark in cycloned swell.

Golden share, Iron weight:
Forged from God for Anvil grate;
Hammer skew,
Hammer skew,
Rise in old
Beat through new.

Shimmer spew share part to leap
And wrinkle down on blackest heap;
Sweep out about
Clear concrete pave,
And rest without,
Without that grave.

Gears as hands, ring for voice
What dastard sound
Matured at choice;
Held by arm, trance to trace
Answers fold about its face.

Fearless yet deceived,
Trickled rumor spread,
Twelve lifeless lies
Consuming all in said;
Skipping down familiar row
Speech to teach what scholar know.

Must all come round
Come round once more,
Flat at surface
Fleet explore;
Dozen masts, half in flight
Half betwixt in lunar sight.

Oldest, youngest,
Somewhat beside,
Between his hand to build it,
Between its own demise;
Snapped stem and rotten core,
Not as ripe as quite before.

-------------------------------------------------------------

The issue of using "Yuck" really comes into play here. This poem fell short of any expectations, but was decided to be put up for reasons unknown. The true meaning behind this piece is based on the fact of time and what it has to offer to reality. Of course, there is more to these lines than what is here. However, the meaning was established in some essence to capture the tale of what reality does around us. Time itself, we are chartered by; it is the destruction of all things as well as the birth. Anything we do can not allow us to escape, as to everything we are controlled heavily by this facet. While Death as itself is just another hand play to this, it is also a freelancer. We are owned, by our bones, to this shifting time. When gazing at a pendulum of an older house-clock, one can only imagine what it represents to the world that we thrive within. Always moving, it has yet to end; and even if plucked from holder, it would continue its strokes on farther corners. Therefore resisting its arrest is everything short of an option.

The poem goes to explain from the first line a simple seen; as one stares with odd eyes into the swing of the golden piece. As it moves it head back and forth, we are the same way. Our lives go to and fro, from death to birth, to death to birth. It's a never ending process, for any kingdom that is bred into this string. The next part merely explains a "Gated Crib" which gives off the feeling of that to a cradle. As it rocks, it squeaks under the weight of the newborn child. As if it is some type of warning to what is to come. To think that a holder of brand new life would cry out each time it held it dearly. That is a play, for it is a siren that should be heard no matter how soft it bellows against the strain. The "Preaching Story" remains to explain that while the Pendulem swings it speaks to us in its own way. Going to and fro, sharing with us details of how things slip away. Everything that is, will not be the same tommorow. It is not kept in the boundaries of light or dark, there are no two sides into this world. It is an expressed thought, there are no borders to cross.

Lines such as "Golden Share, Iron Weight" are used to break meaning to what the Pendulum is. At first glance, it is but a mystical golden rod, constantly in motion. Yet after long held eyes, you can notice that it is nothing more than a eroded weight under the hand of things we do not understand. It is brought here to be the vision, to clearly handle and mark those around it. One can only imagine the blacksmiths who horde over such a piece. The trouble to create it, never fully knowing the destruction and realism they bring to us. Once again, as they build it, they are in the grasp of what it brings. Think as they rise their hammers and slam them down, only to do it over again. Each moment as the clock ticks away, they are as much what they are working on as it is to itself. The next set of lines rush together in a notion of "Wrinkle down on blackest heap". This was used to build an idea from top to bottom. When something fails and returns to ashes, it becomes a part of what nature gave. Yet our world is covered in sheets of concrete, burried in man made walls. Nothing can ever go back to where it came from, it is caught between here and there.

The next few stanzas are used to give off a breathe of a clocks inner illusion. Seeing the gears as hands and the constant "br-ing" of the sound brings out something not before. That sound it delievers is nothing but heresy to our ears. It lets us know that we are closing in to some final hour. Maybe not our own, but somewhere, somehow, there is a fenced man, leaning where he wishes not to lean. Continued to the next stanza, these few lines take the sound of the ring and establish it as a lie. Of course, we know it is not, but we must say such to ourselves to feel secure in what is no longer safe. There are twelve spaces which speak the rumors about, each one taking a bit more apart from society. The same lines are a bit returned in a flowing partake. Speaking of time itself as a dozen masts. Ships that is, on the seas to exploration, six are in day, six are in night. Finally, the last line which wraps the piece up gives off one area. Time has been around from the creation of ourselves, and will also be around until the end of what we are. We are the "its" created by something no one could ever agree upon.

Time might be some legendary figure, there is nothing we could do to actually place our logic into such a fragile figure. There is imagination though, the only thing that really keeps your sanity.

[Cayoshi]

Oh my.

I must say, you've really outdone yourself. You could very well become famous for works such as this. I'm familiar with many adults who couldn't dream of writing this well. I've tried. Although this board is rather dated, I simply had to comment. I've been looking for good, satisfying poetry, and this is simply phenominal. I wish I was so talented. Do continue.