Clocks and Birds

Clocks and Birds

There's always a small ticking clock,
a keep sake of when you felt alive,
to keep, hold tight, and not unlock,
in your hand, its sits, held inside.

Sipped dreams feel like containers,
picking pages of warm winters,
not welcomed to strangers,
thoughts sifted through, filtered.

Insidious as you were,
letting broken lamps be known,
the hands for you not her,
a mansion crumpled up and thrown.

The night not near where it takes,
a short wind from the gathering,
whispering to the bar before it wakes,
"please tonight no staggering."

Laughs, too many, to hear beyond,
the dreams you have, inside, au fond,
they cry outside your window's mind,
to see the ones you hoped you love,
birds that fly so high above.