The Worm of the Hours by Mark Barrett

The Worm of the Hours

by Mark Barrett

The worm of the hours

has turned utterly sour,

and we suck on dry tongues

with our faces all dour;

waiting for the sun

to turn its shadow

and open the flowers;

glistening drip-drop

of water clocks,

still the bell in the tower

will chime not,

perhaps the machinery

is clogged up or stopped

by invisible hands,

or unknown powers

which none understand,

but are nonetheless crawling asthe worm ofthe hours.