Broken Clock: A Sonnet by Mike Cole

The hand turns, yet tells no time.

Minutes to hours, none can tell.

A desert of dust, a relic far from prime.

An empty silence where only darkness dwells.

 

A man stands, moving the hand back.

The dust flutters and he begins to cough.

The further he turns, the more the clock cracks.

He becomes frustrated, then begins to laugh.

 

He begins to turn the hand forward.

It moves and more cracks form.

He turns too far, and time becomes altered.

The hand falls, the clock left transformed.

 

And so is left the lonely hour,

With no minutes for time to devour.


My second attempt at a proper sonnet. Better than the first but still a little rough around the edges. If you like my content, consider supporting me! Don’t feel obligated to but the money helps for the transition into full independence. Like poetry, comment below or shoot me and email; I love hearing from you!

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At the moment, I don't have a job. I also have a debt that is steadily accruing (student loans) and I'm trying to move out of my house and on with my life. As such, any support you can give is much appreciated. The less stress I'm under, the better I can write. No mental fog, no anxiety, and mostly smiles.

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