Rhythm of the Clock

We are painted by time. Our souls the brushes guided by the hours and days and years. Our wrinkles, our scars, strokes of paint the colour of life.

Art that lasts the fleeting forever of our lifetimes.

As we age, we lose our obsession with perfection, and allow time to paint its abstract beauty. For we all lie down to the rhythm of the clock.


You stretch your fingers, white across my skin. Happiness, pain, networks of thin branches.

You remind me with jagged lines what life has brought. Edged, numb in the aftermath of pain. You allow me that small reprieve, that shield.

I used to hide them. Because at one point in my life, I took the wrong class, and learned the wrong material. I had to unlearn it with your eternal patience, your guidance. Never did you let me take a step back.

Now they stand, proud against my skin. My marks. Classes, passed with all the colours blended into a white, stark in contrast with my skin.