The Clock-An Original Poem

The Clock

An original poem written by Jinapher J. Hoffman. All rights reserved to the author.

Awakening from a dreary slumber of absolutely no greatness,

There is a name so blinding it becomes terribly tasteless.

It’s the fear of forgotten ice cold hearts of precisely that,

Which would fuel the minuscule fluttering between the bird and the cat.

There is a place for that fear that was placed within the hands of the man holding the beer,

And there is a cherished moment cherishing the shared of the woman who stood clear in the mirror.

For the lost and unspoken are of the same kinship,

As are brutality and tyranny of the same friendship,

And though clarity is often searched for in such harsh times;

It is the mice who scurry that will ring the final chime.

But, the name is still sitting upon its stool,

And it glorifies itself as if it were bloodied by the pool

Of great warriors who fought for the right of life

On a greater plane from which raised the previous strife.

Delicate are the somber tones of the midnight clock,

Beckoning the man and woman who stare in immortal shock

At the place where their hearts should have been;

Metal ticks cold within.

Tick Tock. Tick Tock.

It’s the forgotten that could not be named,

And the fear that is continuously shamed.

Tick Tock. Tick Tock.

Who was the name?

Who was to blame

For the mechanical madness that ticked within?

Perhaps, if they could count to ten?

Tick Tock. Tick Tock.

One, the man and woman have searched here and there.

Two, the man and woman have become bare and scared.

Three, the chimes are ding, ding, dinging.

Four, their throats are sing, sing, singing.

Five, the name: it was the clock.

Six, the clock, oh, how it mocks.

Seven, is it too late for six?

Eight, they are broken, the chimes now faint bricks.

Nine, they have found the ancient clock on the wall.

Ten, their organs are arranged and installed.

Eleven, the list had stopped at ten.

Twelve, let the clock begin again.

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