I’m rundown. Not a proper clock.
Wicked ticker slowing to stop.
On the verge of turning into rock.
Fancy blinkers before I flop.
Though digits from yesteryear
help me restrain out of fear.
One on one I’m getting bigger.
Still the Primitive in here.
Matching fingers with what’s out there.
The plane’s pulling into the station.
Or is the station a bear?
Lines toward one vocation.
I stand on this platform shivering.
A digital on my wrist quivering.
Don’t know how it works but using it.
I am a colossal twit.
Off to the university of universals
about to be judged by peers.
I drowned in a pound of thistles
In a language beyond my years.