Tick Tock

Discussion in 'Poet's Corner' started by twowolves80, Jul 23, 2016.

  1. twowolves80

    twowolves80 Darkness Incarnate; don't even bother

    The air is thick,
    choking,
    as the clock winds down,
    each tock slower than the last.
    The owner's hand refuses
    to wind once more
    the coil spring of life,
    condemning a slow death.

    The gears worn with age,
    the brass tarnished
    and dull,
    the crystal scratched.
    The hands tick
    jerky and uncertain,
    knowing the vague terror
    of uncertainty.

    Locked into each
    turning of the cogs,
    unable to escape
    an inexorable fate.
    And every passing moment,
    the tension grows
    into self-doubt and
    introversion, every cycle the same.

    Until one day, it stops,
    and only the unspoken why
    echoes into the night.
     
  2. SinisterKid

    SinisterKid Safety & Support SF Supporter

    For a hedonist, you sure write dark poetry ;)
     
    twowolves80 likes this.
  3. twowolves80

    twowolves80 Darkness Incarnate; don't even bother

    lol I do...my hedonism is how I cope with mortality.
     
    Witty_Sarcasm likes this.