The writings of Oddpoet

She had the sweet­est smile
But eyes that seen too many dark places
And when she decided to play with the world
Her mind was sharp
Like a glis­ten­ing razor
Pulled out of Richard Speck’s pocket
Blood stained and thirsty
Scream­ing for vengeance
Always at that mill
Grind­ing
Hon­ing
whet­ting
Her hatred for this world

But it was the bro­ken clock she car­ried
Around her neck which
Hunched her back
Like Qua­si­modo
Like Atlas shoul­der­ing the bur­den of this world
It sprouted springs and gears
The tou­sled hair of some deranged Medusa
Waver­ing in mad rhythm to her tor­tured steps

But the wood was cared for
Pol­ished and shone
Not giv­ing reflec­tion
But absorb­ing all
A black hole
Where only night lived

She would smile and touch it con­stantly
it’s hands frozen
In ric­tus
The stiff­ened reach of a long dead God
The clock was per­pet­u­ally 9:47
It was when her love left the world
When her life creased to be
She said
Love would come back
And it would start tick­ing again
Oth­ers would laugh at her
And roll their eyes to the sky
Not I

She was far too young
To push a shop­ping cart
Filled with the tat­tered refuse
Of other people’s lives
of her own

Yet day in and day out
She rolled wear­ing
treads in the streets
Like a Roman legion off to some
Dis­tant con­quest.
Only she knew that destination

I do not see her any­more
No one ever cares
A pal­try few
Really care…
Per­chance
She found a new land
Where her eyes match her smile
Where life does not assault her so…

And
I hope
That clock starts tick­ing
Again…