Time 22, a kind of Catch 22 after the fact, when don't even a goodbye was said, when from that first stab's of searing pain attacking your heart it slowly subsides giving way to self reproaching and turning your head to look back and wonder what could you had done different, how could you had used all those wasted minutes that we could throw away because more minutes were coming.
But they didn't.
Suddenly, your minutes account was in overdraft, she was gone, no more minutes for daddy to fence mending, or to say "Dad loves you" once more knowing that it was the last minute.
A kind of Catch 22, why you did what you did and why you didn't.

The time hide there,
in the heart of a broken clock,
a stabbed past is bleeding minutes
which tick by tack hours will form.

At birth, an invisible hand will
write and count on your life's book,
the measure of happines and miseries
starting slowly, with your childhood.

Spring and summers, forming years,
with the laughter of the very young,
autumn and winter getting forgotten
inside the wrinkles of the very old.

Hours, still marching, going nowhere,
counting the time we have left to go,
showing that we have treated life
like it was time in an empty clock.