The Clock is Dead, and So Are the Laws

Tick-tock, tick-tock, says the anarchist clock,
yet time is a joke no one is laughing at.
A lotus blooms in the chaos of this street,
its petals break laws, smearing ink across the pavement.
The revolution arrives at noon,
or was it already here?

Shattered gears lie scattered,
symbols of order,
crushed beneath the weight of demands.
The sun hangs heavy,
a witness to the defiance,
casting shadows on broken systems,
as whispers of freedom swirl in the air.

A mural splashed with rebellion,
brush strokes breathing life into the walls,
each color a heartbeat,
each line a declaration.
“We are the echoes of the unheard,”
they chant,
voices rising like smoke,
curling and twisting,
daring the world to listen.

Laws fade in the haze,
their ink runs like tears,
as laughter dances through the streets,
unbound and wild,
while the clock’s hands spin aimlessly,
mocking the very essence of control.

In this moment,
we are time and timeless,
the past a distant memory,
the future a canvas yet to be painted.
So let the clock remain silent,
for in its stillness,
we find the pulse of change,
a heartbeat echoing through the void,
where chaos reigns,
and freedom is the only law.