Poetry

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Must concentrate,at seven and eight,can't be late,the clock that i now see,its hands are free,their movements are a lesson,like
life only i may be sometimes guessing,on this clocks face,no
need to rush or race,these hands move at their own pace,an any
way turn is their own style,the time's not really theirs to say,
and their digits have no part to play,their movements do not
tell a lie,they say you have to think and try,for when you stop,
your own time is nigh,the hands can't speak,but their movements
keep,a record of the hands of life,freely given to all of the
living,until GOD,THE FATHER,says these hands are yours,but time
is always forever a stay on any day,all time is mine,this only
GOD MAY SAY,ANY WAY.
Joe.

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