TIME By Celestina Omor

My time is buried in some ancient frame,
Voiceless yet its fingers speak.
I just heard a tock!
It can’t be stopped,
I would have robbed.

This frame is like my prudent mama,
Putting my stride in place,
Hence,I won’t be at peace till I’m a piece.
The faithful ticker wipes my speck off,
Now I’m a seer of my own destiny.

Make that rich hay
When the heavens joke and tease the dry earth,
Make hay,
For the seasons change even before the ticker knows.


By Celestina Omor Orhue, Nigeria


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