Tick and Tock
Tick, the clock said, sour of face,
sitting on the mantle space,
then, to soften blow and shock,
relented with a sullen tock.
Tick -- my time is ticking on,
the new becoming old anon;
nor can any means in stock
prevent the tick that follows tock.
Tick -- the world will pass away;
nothing you can do or say
brings again the turn of clock
that once was spoken at the tock.
Tick, the watching watches shout,
tick, the sullen wall-clocks pout,
tick, the grand-old-father clock
will claim, and will not stay at tock.
Tick -- it passes. Tick -- it ends.
Tick, it says, and tick again.
But ah -- 'tis true, tick cannot block
the single hope returned by tock.
Tick -- accept it, but recall
pendulum must rise and fall:
for every end ticked by the clock,
a new beginning starts with tock.
On Saturday Night
Saturday night and I'm still living;
I can barely handle what life's been giving.
I shrug my shoulders; I don't know why
the world seems driven by this do-or-die.
Saturday night and the stars are hidden;
I try to make the best with what I've been given,
building up Babel, though I don't know why
(can never stop building, can't touch the sky).
Saturday night and my head is spinning.
No safety from losing and no sign of winning,
I look at my life and I could almost cry:
all of these wings and I still can't fly.
