Tick Tock

Time has a taste,
A touch
A certain smell
And a particular sound,

It isn’t the tick of the clock
In an empty room,
It is your silent breathing
And screaming thoughts,
Though only heard
If you let yourself,
Listen to time at all,

It isn’t the smell of batteries,
The toxicity of which powers the clock,
It is the scent of your soul decaying
Or building up
every passing second,
Whichever way you let it go,

It isn’t the texture of glass
Which layers the numbers
And needles,
But the touch of air
And the softness of a lived moment,
Though only felt
If you are brave enough
To let it burn your skin,

It isn’t the taste of nothingness,
For none of us have eaten time,
But the bitterness
Of a growing age
And the reality
That time does taste awful,
Though only when you realize
That time is alive.

Sapphire Red

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