Poetry

Weft

The clock, that friendly assassin
Ready Reckon-er of expired life,
Clunks relentlessly on the wall
Sounding out the fabric of time
In bolts of twenty four.
But something else is happening
As cell divide and die, replacing
Your old self with new fabric
That becomes increasingly shoddy.
Yet you bargain for these remnants
Thread bare, faded colours and all.
In the carpet shop of life
we all need something to stand on.