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As The Clock Drips
by J. P. Davies
My life is a bottle,
of distilled, triple filtered water,
with a pin hole in the lid.
Flipped at birth,
it now drips
on and on...
Drops collect dirt
as they fall.
Some land muddy,
others are still quite clean.
None are pure again.
They speed downwards,
striking an element,
which is every sundown,
and burst quickly into vapour.
I can never reclaim them.
These drops
that are the passing moments
of a life constantly passing.
Maybe tomorrow...
My bottle is dry
and all the drops
that have fallen
have been carried away.
So watch every drop
while it falls
and make sure
that it's not the last.
Another drop will fall.
but do not disregard
the mid-fall orb.
This drop is unique.
This and every drop
sum total the vapour
that is my past.
A slowly, growing,
thick fog of time
and memory.
If your drop
should collide with mine,
will it dilute my drop
with its purity,
or blacken it
with its shame?
Now,
if my purest,
and yours should meet:
their fall to the heat,
slowly, and softly.
The most dazzling jewel
either of us has ever seen.
11/25/2003 Posted on 11/25/2003
Copyright © 2024 J. P. Davies
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Barbara Griffith on 11/25/03 at 03:45 PM I really enjoyed the poem, but it was a bit hard to read with the background and the colour. |
| Posted by Agnes Eva on 11/25/03 at 05:08 PM beautiful poem, beautiful image, i like the whole metaphor especially the love jewel at the end |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 11/25/03 at 07:06 PM Colourful, evocative combo young sir! |
| Posted by Leslie Ann Eisenberg on 11/30/03 at 07:10 AM do not disregard the mid-fall orb.
....lovely, and the last stanza is a killer. well done |
| Posted by Leslie Ann Eisenberg on 11/30/03 at 07:11 AM btw, your poem title caught my eye, because i saw the new loony tunes movie today, and there's a scene where the go into the dali painting, and they drip too. very trippy. |
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