"The giant's pocket watch


He lays his back on engraved stone,
Bearing witness, our days bygone.
Despite tireless work in the sun,
We never quite think about your glum.

Treating your selflessness in kind,
Their interest is plain to me,
Short, vapid, stares from the blind,
That just don't quite last any time.

Oh sundial, don't you see?
Your life's purpose, a mere shadow of what you could be!
You don't ring, you don't speak,
And so a simple stone you will remain.

In this era where time is a currency,
We spare no cost in moving on.
You stand here, all alone,
In the eye of the passerby cyclone."

> I hate poems.
> I tell you to write me a poem.
> You ask me Do you not Hate poems?
> I ask you, what do you think?
> We know from step one, that you know I hate poems.
> You spend 20 years making me a poem.
> I hate it.
> For some reason you're surprised."

"In verses loathed, my distaste declared,
A poem's dance, a style impaired.
Yet here it is, a brief refrain,
A nod to disdain, in words mundane."