postmortem

the clock on the wall is missing its arms,
fallen off, like pieces of rotten flesh,
decaying,
decomposing on a pile of numerical maggots,
at the edge of time

this is my soul.
this is eternal.
this is.

me
drilled to a brick wall
for all time,
face-less,
without purpose;
except to be written as a poem
about a clock who cannot tell time
from eternity.