The forms of time are many,

and the consequences few -

there is only one end to this

piece of string.

The notes are varied in their length

but the tune is monotone.

It's the sound of the flat-line

of the cardiac arrest.

It's the sound a raven makes

when squashed by writing desk.

It's the formless repetition of

the Saharan desert sands.

It's the selfish claws of love that

left bleeding vows on summer's back.

The staring eye of death-row's child

that seeks its bitter end.

While no two claim a twin,

the forms and functions are the same.

The contents may slightly differ,

but there's only time to blame.

A tortured soul in motion

looks serene while still at rest.

And the world is still nostalgic

for the child at mother's breast.