Time Of Broken Clocks

Time Of Broken Clocks
© Surazeus
2026 05 17

If I am born in time of broken clocks 
in log cabin beside the sparkling river, 
my heart will crumble into flakes of rust 
each time I walk past ticking stone of fate 
that drinks the salty tears of fallen angels 
who stitch fractured watches on tattered wings. 

Though I drift lost in time of broken clocks 
in cathedral of shattered pendulums 
that toll no twisted hour of unspooled grief, 
I ride the graveyard carousel till dawn 
on weeping horse with crackling bones of glass 
till my hands become turtles in the pond. 

Before I laugh in time of broken clocks 
as midnight stitches paper masks from moons, 
composed from writhing clumps of bitter snow, 
I swim in ocean of unmoving hands 
that drown pulsing face of eternity 
with graphic weight of arbitrary words. 

After I cry in time of broken clocks, 
while stumbling dark halls of the floating castle, 
I find hourglass on legless desk of fear 
that coughs ashes where it once poured pure gold 
at sudden misalignment of six kites 
that veil blind cherub hovering over me. 

Never awake in time of broken clocks, 
I climb staircase that melts upward in clouds 
of black water, comprised of eyeless gods, 
to cluttered meadow where electric birds 
with lanterns glowing in transparent ribs 
explain why every faceless human dies. 

Stuck alone outside time of broken clocks, 
I crawl across the windy plain of homes 
where violins grow roots through their floorboards 
to reassemble puzzle from our dreams 
into graceful church with four tall white steeples 
where no one ever sings hymns about death. 

Trapped by truth outside time of broken clocks, 
I map sizzling rivers that flow backwards 
through libraries where every book bleeds sand 
instead of pages wrapped around glass moons 
that hang suspected above bovine fields 
where eyeless statues play chess with my shadow. 

Since I will die in time of broken clocks, 
I polish mirrors in numberless houses 
that are filled with thunderstorms of desire 
brewing inside brains of innocent boys 
who aim guns at photographs on dead trees 
and shout to imitate sharp sounds of shots.