The ticks and the tocks

One, then the other. Then the former, followed by the latter.
In that order?

It’s okay. You don’t have to decide.
It does not matter anyway.

Which claims you for its own, though? Which do you belong to?
The one heard first? Or the one understood last?
The unnamed spaces between the two, perhaps. Maybe those are the pits it all capitulates into.

The high points stuck in limbo while space and time go at war to deafen the furore stamping its signature. Letting everything run wild, all trapped in the middle of the two.

So busy rehearsing the frantic dances mocking their own selves, in their artful hands they hold all leashes.

Such finesse. Such aplomb.
A round of applause, if you please.
Because yes. Let’s just ignore the turbulent fact that their constant breath is commendation enough in itself.

A rhythm. 

And you, the perpetual slave.