Ticking Clocks

His face is intricate, ancient, dusty

Ominous numbers loom in the distance, sprouting up like a city tower 

The old man smells of wisdom: subtle and musty

He stands boldly in a corner, watching, ticking, always in power

Menacing hands groping toward forever

Like a ballerina spinning round on tp toe

They are twins lost in a never ending game of tag, stopping never

Listen closely and you can hear, the soft, "tick-tock" of their feet across the waxy paper as they go

Time drags on, people getting older

The pendulum meticulously swinging, never missing a beat

The glaring gaze, the soothing melody, a deadly combinatin you cannot help but meet

Wilting away the moments that make up a lifetime

Your breathing becomes strained, the hands seem to slow, the old man mourning you 

But he knows time stops for no one as you take your last breath, and so he continues to chime

The clock rings twelve, smiling and proud, thinking of the life you once knew