The numbers on a clock should be black
And above all
Petals of bright, egg-yolk yellow without warmth
Safely mocking behind masks of mass-produced happiness
Tick by like seconds.
Dandelion clocks dissolve into a relentless blue
Down-winged dreams scatter with the slightest gust
The sky wears bruises on her face.
Wretched clockwork heart throbs like a wound
Keeping mechanised time with unravelling stitches