The Righteousness of a Broken Clock

Initials carved in wet concrete, worn smooth by the passage of passing feet.

Time passes, yet those indelible figures remain; through burning sun and falling rain.

Steps pass over weary stone, ankles click and muscles groan.

I am not immune to the passing of time. Each step is mine; each second mine.

Each crack in concrete marks the time and old carved initials become a sign…

Of things we’ve lost and days enshrined.

By faded photographs, our lives unwind.

Like broken cuckoo clocks.