Time

Flexing it's smug little fingers

It
sirens the warning, I'm late

Alerting behind's
misdemeanours

Evoking a cause for
irate

Midday it mocks at my
cereal

I'll eat what I want when I
choose

Beit, mantel, on wrist, or
imperial

It needs batteries to inflect its
muse

I have corpses of time in my
wardrobes

Brass innards and springs, pins and
straps

If this obsession with early
continues

I have water to quiet its tick
below taps

No more typing to tocks timely
tempo

Pilfering hours and seconds through
week

Its derisory smirks are dissected in
seconds

As time meets its in wardrobe
clique

Peering from churches lewd
steeples

Figured from number of bodies in
shop

No flight from its scathing
precision

No escape from the govern of
clock

lex ? 03