249. The Writer

I placed my hand on a clock,

and fell into a timeless reality,

where boundaries did not stop me

from becoming what I’m not.

I could never die from old age,

for I did not grow any older.

And even though my body grew colder,

I could never turn the page.

As often as I would try to write,

I would always finish on the same line.

The next line would seem so far away,

though I hoped to reach it one day.

The writer, fallen out of time,

would never discover his own way.

Always stuck on the same line,

nobody would ever know his name.