The hand reached out towards escape
From a perfect unbroken cage,
But pulled back to reality
It rotates for an age.
All it wishes is to run away from
Ticking ticking time,
Its purpose of existence in
Itself is but a crime.
The hand that turns accused numbers
From boundaries one and twelve
And at each point a person finds
Or loses in themselves
The drive to put away this tool that
keeps us in one place
To never look again upon
Its staring ticking face.
The curse of time held in its place
It never can escape,
From turning round a ticking clock
Never early nor is it late.
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