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The kitchen clock, a constant lie,

always five minutes ahead of time.

Its second hand, a hurried eye,

skips past the true, the real, the chime.

It doesn't care for measured pace,

it rushes on, a frantic tick.

A tiny jump, in its own space,

it makes the minutes turn so quick.

I watch it now, this steady fraud,

a small dictator on the wall.

It proves that time can be outlawed,

or simply bent, for one and all.

And I, who chase the slipping day,

always behind, or always lost,

am mocked by how it pulls away.

No matter what the real time cost.