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Life of a Clock
A clock, people say,
Has two hands- or three, if you wish to be exact,
Fitted perfectly in the center of the perfect circle.
The hands run,
Rushing, bounding, begging,
Screaming by the second,
Toiling by the hour-
Trapped for eternity inside their boundaries,
Rushing, bounding, begging,
Till time runs to a stop,
And the hands have their release,
Striking down the final hour,
Then no more.
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....:) Death it is.