He whose hands
never grow weary
of moving on,
marches with cadence,
round and round —
as if that were its only purpose —
to race with time
and never look back.
The Clock
Poetry by Gregg Galgo | January 6, 2008
Poetry by Gregg Galgo | January 6, 2008
He whose hands
never grow weary
of moving on,
marches with cadence,
round and round —
as if that were its only purpose —
to race with time
and never look back.