A Chip in Occam’s Razor

There is a loneliness that stares at you from the face of a clock
With ticks in careful symphony of yesterday’s tap and raindrops
The still movement of hands containing a whisper
Of promises –
Of wishes which the heart relies on to keep its rhythm
For forgetfulness or longevity

It is the nature of ticks to echo through time in faithful symmetry
Through lungs that commit suicide on a daily basis
Through voices that sing scars for a living
As a reminder against the ignominious stares that has poisoned
The human heart

A final word:
Sometimes we don’t do things we want to do
So that others won’t know we want to do them.
And that we don’t ask things when the question
Reveals what we want more than the answer that we would hear.

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