The great looming grandfather clock swallows
time as gutters do rain,
pendulum smirking, minute hand
pointing authoritatively and
the hour hand compliant.
The fragile wooden frame with its
flimsy glass does not take away
from its imposing and dogmatic aura,
accentuated with every tick,
punctuated with every tock,
as the pendulum swings slowly
and morbidly.
The concept of reality
is brought into the physical realm,
embodied by the grandfather clock,
and becomes real and tangible itself
rendering all interpretative doubt concrete.
the grandfather clock
is real and therefore time
is real and
I have a problem
with reality.
