Literary Yard

Search for meaning


By: Shloka Shankar


The clock looks at me indignantly
And I wonder what I did to upset Time;
I’ve whiled away countless minutes
Twiddling my thumbs,
Or contemplating a lost thought,
Or in self-delusion.

I’ve had my share of insomnia,
Where Time appears to stand still –
Beckoning me towards Lethe,
Slowly, yet painfully.

I look back at the clock,
Its hands momentarily at rest;
A whirlpool of deceit,
Death’s imposter, the
Winged chariot flies onward.



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