He was four, But his mind was senile, Tough, to be fascinated, By that aluminum box, That hung wall high, He was curious, When it struck an early six, He could see the skies Pick up their first azure color And when, it struck the next six, The skies faded to a scary black, He needed more of the azure, So, one faithful cock’s crow, He stole up high, Unslung the box And toyed with the knob, As the ticker stole from six, He’d drive it back, After a while, he was sure that, he’d had his way, His eyes sunk in though, aghast When he found that the skies Picked up their popular black At the appointed time, Not under his control.
About the Author:
Victor Ogan is a writer who has been strongly influenced by the works of great authors. He draws inspiration from his internal self-reflection and careful observation of the world around him. Twitter: @Victheking
This piece is part of Issue Two: CHRONOS. Read more like it here.