In a quaint little house
On top of a hill,
A young boy was nestled
In the comfort of his home.
The glow from the screen
Of Saturday morning cartoons
Were only outshined
By the glare of his loving parents,
Whose faces sometimes changed
But remained just as bright.
The gloss of their eyes mirrored in his
When his were not fixated on toys and friends,
But when he was busy with his boy things,
The shine of his parents’ eyes reflected
In the face of the clock.
The clock face had no sparkle of its own,
But basked in the light it absorbed
From the boy’s parents.
One day, while becoming bored with his toys,
The face of the clock grew restless.
Its hands reached out, grabbed the boy,
And drug him outside, into the harsh light of day.
The sun’s harsh rays irradiated his skin
And temporarily blinded his eyes:
The radiance severe and unforgiving.
The boy felt the hands of the clock let go
And he was left alone under the sunlight.
When his eyes finally adjusted
He realized he was not alone.
There were many other people around,
Aged from him to elderly.
Almost all of them were wearing sunglasses,
Which undoubtedly would help in the given condition.
The boy slinked back inside the comfort of his home.
He went to tell his parents of the horrible incident,
But when he saw them, they looked different.
Their faces were not as bright as they used to be-
Did the sun make them pale in comparison?
He looked over to the face of the clock,
Whose illuminance had stayed the same.
It did, however, seem different-
The clock had started ticking down
Instead of ticking around.
Time finally dragged me into the light;
I am now a man.
The colors I used to see are all turned to grays.
I couldn’t ask enough questions,
But now have too many answers.
The scariest of nightmares
Are when I’m awake.
Companionship used to be wanted,
But now it is needed.
Freedom of toys
Is now the cost of living.
We used to hold hands because we had to;
Now we hold them in hopes for comfort
When those clock’s hands drag us away again.