How my ears are vexed by the ticking clock;
That two-faced smiling toll a wind-up trick.
Face the first which all human deeds does mock,
Face the second: heavenly hope turned sick.
Once around His hands offer every gift;
Again around His hands demand the cost:
For eager Spring that seed to fruit does lift,
Winter plucks blossoms with fingers of frost.
And His stiffest drink He serves to sip
From a cup ever filling to the top,
As an ejected tire’s rounding trip,
Till I am stomach sick and beg it stop.
Yet I confess on still, dark nights I fear
The climax of the clocks will someday near.
Joseph Byron Bennett
Bennett Diction 