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In between the hands of hours, time swept under a door to the house of life,

It went somewhere untraceable, minute mice lightly breathing

Behind rooms of overlarge things, in nests of seconds comprised of

The smallest memories, not even a human could remember.

 

The clock struck midnight, this grand mahogany monument,

Behind the glass, a snow-faced grandfather,

With silver tick tocks, racing for years, at an unchangeable pace,

Wound its gears through golden years in the house of life,

 

Managed meaning and enforced its laws, though never realizing;

Some had watched its motions, tensed up, rushed, remembered, forgot,

Some followed it time like roads, and they drove on, never knowing where to go,

Until accident or attraction.

 

And then there were one or two who knew, through clever nights, listening,

Waiting for the clock to talk, and realizing that time answers for no one,

Because time is relatively false.

For that, they were the wisest.

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