Clock's Persistence

Seconds pass into oblivion--
the space between matter and metaphysical realm.
Once I stepped there,
into the slippery dimension,
to say, "Look! The fragments on the wall! They mean nothing,
nothing at all"
And Escher painted recursion--the twisted stairs of time.
But Kafka wrote the words--
prodigy of entangled minds.
Like electrical wires,
serpents, whose skin was smooth and black,
Minutes, pass me by,
and I am a ring upon time's floor,
perpetually moving to the rhythm of breath,
And when they were gone, I said, "Look! The wood began to splinter! But It means nothing,
nothing at all,
to clock's persistence; time's transient wall.