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.