a product of mild delirium and ghosts of philosophy exams past

Dear Mr Clock

Too much time on your hands?
I often see you hold
Right on 3:33
It soon becomes quite clear:
You’re softly mocking me.

If we could understand
The passage of our time
We might control your run;
Force some explanation

Tick, tock; the clock stops. Dead.
Just threatening. This time.
I’ll happily take ‘slow’;
At least with that you know
Exactly where you’re going.