The hour-hand holds up the air.
It counts down like a candle indoors.
As autumn street sweeps up its sleeves
of burnt paper and lingering leaves.
Winter walks in on the wind
wearing its fetid fur coat.
We shiver and turn it our backs.
It whispers and howls and gloats.
And the sun looks down,
watching as the earth turns around.
Slipping in and out of sight,
constantly changing its mind.
And it hears, as it turns back,
the howling of one thousand hours.
And the trees, they remember her.
She's talking to them like she's known them before.
But they are forgetting what they're meant to say
because losing your confidence robs you of grace
and as the cloud-bank falls back again
then the sunlight will shine down again,
onto autumn street, coming through the leaves.
And the sun will look down,
still watching as the earth turns around,
slipping in and out of sight
and constantly changing its mind.
It's reflection, off a pocket watch,
kept counting once the clock had stopped,
so it hears, as it turns around,
the howling of one thousand hours.
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