The Clock with No Hands

I lift my head to the hour at hand, And stare up at the clock.

It calls to us silently with it's ticking fucking tock.

It's numbers tell us when to run. To get our ass in gear.

To gather up my minutes now. However far & near.

To get our time into it's jar? I toss my things into my car.

And gather up my hours now, However near and far.

But whats inside a minute? A second of the day?

What is it that makes us look, at our clocks each day.

The slavery of work? The time we need to go?

Appointments we reschedule, Or letting others know?

The moment when we hurry? The ticking of our lives?

The seconds gone from light to dark? To when we close our eyes?

Or is it meant for more than that? This time we cannot see.

We only see it, and so well be it, but overlook it's mystery.

The mystery of losing time that governs all our ticking lives

Seperating every minute, And whispers to our eye's.

Reminds us that we're running late or if it's way too soon.

Ticking, taking raping seconds, away from me and you.

Robbing us our moments. To be on time, or not.

To hustle in the "Rat race." Just to want what others got.

So we're punching time cards, just to make a buck

And if it weren't for debt and money. Would we give uh fuck?

The answer is, "Hell no!" We'd never give a damn.

If all our debt was paid in full, on a clock with no hands.