Clocks

I feel the clocks ticking,
Along the curve of my spine.
Each movement on it's face,
Is recording wasted time.

Angel song in my head,
Announcing epiphany divine,
A coll breeze on skin stretched
Over bones I wish weren't mine.

Time is up for thinking,
My clocks now demand
That i make my mark on the world,
And beat that moving hand.

And I'll Try not to make promises,
To sell my soul to hell,
For something to make me brilliant
Before I hear that chiming bell.

If father time were patient,
I could lay here and think a while.
But he has never waited for me,
I guess it's just not his style.

So I'll Push my way forward,
Ignore the rushing in my veins,
To record myself in the universe
and refrain from it's disdain.