When the Clock Strikes Twelve

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

I hear the sound of the approaching end to another day. I hear time thrashing and lashing its way through the remnants of the remaining moments of the day. It heralds the infancy of the beginning of days to come. It is the epoch of our awakening into the light of the dawning of our renewal and our resurgence from the chasm of despair.

WHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES TWELVE

By Al Garcia

I hear the sound of the approaching end to another day.  I hear time thrashing and lashing its way through the remnants of the remaining moments of the day.  It heralds the infancy of the beginning of days to come.  It is the epoch of our awakening into the light of the dawning of our renewal and our resurgence from the chasm of despair. 

There is a quietness and a calmness as the clock strikes twelve.  There is a moment of reflection and contemplation, and then there is realization.  The world has once again spun around its undulating path, with its creatures great and small too preoccupied to see the splendor and the grandeur of all that surrounds them and all that sustains the heavens and the firmament beyond.  The passage of time marked on a clock without hands, ageless and endless. 

And as we watch the ticking clock, we ponder and we marvel at the seconds and the minutes that pass us by without a sigh or groan or moan.  Time is soundless and indiscernible.  It is only when we see the reflection of ourselves that we lament the passage of the seconds and the minutes, the hours and the days.  For left behind by time is a fading replica of who we once had been.  And as the clock strikes twelve, we once again uttered a sign, a groan and a moan at the thought that time has once again passed us by like a rainbow in the night -- undetected and unappreciated.

And the clock strikes twelve, and I hear the sound of fireworks and see the fireballs light up the sky in colors bright and bold, followed by a rain of falling colored snowflakes in the blackness of the night, like a symphony of thunder and rainbows.  The ending and the beginning as the clock strikes twelve.

And as the winds of time continue to ravish and consume the days and years, and epochs of our lives, the seconds and the minutes tick away on a clock without hands.

And when the clock strikes twelve, the soundness chimes awake the restless souls that sense the moving hands of time.


Submitted: June 04, 2021

© Copyright 2021 A.Garcia. All rights reserved.

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