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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I love producing content. As I grow as an individual, so does my content. What was once acceptable now isn’t. As such, more time is spent working on each post. I do all edits, research, and content creation. Whether it’s taking photos for a post one day to writing poetry the next, my blog is keeping me busy. Donations are appreciated and are used to invest in creative pursuits whether that be writing classes, art lessons, and anything in-between.