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Rated: E · Poetry · Personal · #1761494
How do I go over the hill without going over the hill?
The clock hands used to stick,
poised in stasis on its face.
Students bent over desks
while seconds stretched so long
we thought they ticked
just once in five minutes.

The clockworks must have jammed:
springs gathered force
till something snapped,
spun me off through decades
of life at a leap.

I've skidded here to middle ground,
off-kilter and flailing.
My past folds in behind
like an accordion
of compressed memories
gathering momentum, threatening
to fling me forward again.

For a moment I stay,
survey the landscape,
plan my trajectory—
look for a way up
instead of over this hill.

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