The hours have come upon me,
Heavy remorse carried on the tick.
The virtue of incorruptible wickedness.
Tock, tick, tock, tick - air is getting thick
With the palpable wasting away, tock,
The stench of corpses strewn across the floor
Tick… the condescendence of that abominable clock!
The hours deceived me and then
At once, I heard their blatant mocking
And the sound of time being eaten alive.
Tick, tock - that unbearable knocking
At the door, there never was a fucking door!
My wickedness overshadowed by time,
Tick, tock, the death of each second – I cannot ignore.
'Tis evil that feeds the hours,
No regard for those wailing and sick.
They pass by without recognition of those
Laid waste under the weight of the tick
And the tock – loathsome in the time we waste.
Tick, tock - make it stop that incessant sound!
Tick, tock, tick, tock… Wait! No need for silence, no need for haste.
The hours visit without spite,
Shares the load of my faltering mind,
Offers me a meal of their putrid remains…
How could I consider them unkind?
The tick-tockings absentmindedly devours
Then begins retching and heaving the bones
Of those last consumed, spent, cold and decomposing hours.
M TERESA CLAYTON
YOU ARE READING
Tick-Tock
PoetryTime - a man-made measurement of something that exists in the ethereal sense - or the minds of the insane - who hear the constant tick and tock of the clock.... What is real?
