Narble Furt Lives

Old clocks get tired.
Nothing seems random.
There is no rest while the spring
grips taut intent,
or the electrons keep moving
across potential in constant current,
or the sun casts a shadow
on a face as old as humanity.
The heart knows this:
it reads shadows and rides
an electronic pendulum arc.
This journey of flesh carries
until the spring is slack
and the energy of who
we are finds a ghost,
wholly or in part.
My clock will not get tired,
it will just stop
in a quantum moment.

(clock: ednagallery.com; heart: m.harunahya.com)