"It is us who wind our clockwork lives"
He told me, at Winter's dawn.
His words cut into my pride like knives,
But since then, no strings have I worn.
He told me, at Winter's dawn,
Words that loosed regret from my eyes.
But since then, no strings have I worn;
Only the bruises from your thousand lies.
Words that loosed regret from my eyes
They were once, but now nevermore.
Only the bruises from your thousand lies
Glow under my skin, from your whispers sore.
They were once, but now nevermore,
The motto for your forsaken life. Now they
Glow under my skin, from your whispers sore.
The lines he wrote you burn each day.
The motto for your forsaken life, now, they
Charred to a pile of ash, you see.
The lines he wrote you burn each day;
From the ashes, these words are phoenixes for me.
Charred to a pile of ash, you see,
My heart stopped ticking for you today.
From the ashes, these words are phoenixes for me,
But not yours, I see, yet one thing I'll say:
My heart stopped ticking for you today.
His words cut open my pride like knives,
But not yours, I see, yet one thing I'll say:
It is us who wind our clockwork lives.
YOU ARE READING
Clockwork Lives
PoetryAn anthology of love and lies; choice and change; fate and free will. Lives interlocking like clockwork and yet not at all like clockwork.
