Do We Reveal Ourselves Too Wildly By Pure Hope
The Thudding Machinations Of The Clock — The Intermates Series
Rebels shall be thee, in the turbillion to the relentless price of passing time.
Thud-one thousandths, Thud-two thousandths, and clutch.
A dispatching throe comes dastardly through the seething machinations of an overreaching clock; hence goes the docile Domain.
He thuds once, he thuds twice, he thus thrice before finally belaying himself to her starkly, raw rotting sides.
Thud-thus booms the ceaseless tick of the thrusting clock.
Hard and harder — he is stillborn in the murky mirth of idol dots;
This luckless remains; remaining ever cooler; rivals to the Dutch.
Thud — Thud, Thud.
Dispatched with an unenviable Hotchkiss of a lying list.
Dispatched with the reddening line of flesh, goaded for the idling hope; shaken for the making lies that bind us or not.
The cancer is, what shalt be bleached to;
Useless images bound to the timepiece — hatred or not.
Thud-one thousandths, Thud-two thousandths; Thud-even, three thousandths more;
The divorcing two are finally severed. Done, done… done.
Akin for extra goodness? — might that wheedle ye?
The Hope is wide, whilst what is in the deliverance
Is undetermined — their positivism is the credit of their rancor
To remain silently, thereabout, without
Thud-one thousandths more — to whittle what thwacking brush
That calls on the ticking machinations of the
Starking painted clock — visage daring you to face.
That remains, what will come
Can never be aforesaid;
You, young upstart, be close to closure,
And wait what comes to that patient clock.
Trouble, either/or, always arises;
Happiness is, what happiness will be
For the splitting second, but dare it on to last —
You will hustle to mask the fear of being without yearning;
Remain, young thing, and beholden the patience,
To bear time, in what the plain truly is;
Be the gray wonder that forebears
What most would rather turn
Their loyalties on — never heard, never seen,
Evening light, never-gleamed.
Rebels shall be thee, in the turbillion to the relentless price of passing time.
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As ever, Dear Reader.