Death of Time


It used to be my lullaby: the clicking clacking warbled hymn,
the movement of the whirring motors, calming noise, percussive din.
Subconscious and intrinsic pulse, with measured tempo running deep,
omnipresent resonance for lulling me to placid sleep.
Pervasive and tick-talking sound, the reassuring humming drone
led to conversations and the faithful rhythmic comfort often soothed me when alone.

It used to be my lullaby, eternal notes that never irked,
a bedtime song to drift away, the steady tempo never bored,
Sandman’s task defunct and shirked, these clocks replaced his only chore,
with free release of midnight sheep brings well rehearsed exotic beats,
memorized eclectric bleats, actualized by songs repeated,
conversations in my head are spoken in iambic meter begging time to keep.

But tiresome is the drudgery of constant replaced batteries
twice a year to save daylight; option made to end that plight.
It’s easier to live without, accept the dark, and see the black,
let things go or pass them up, to wash your hands and stand aback.
Easier than putting forth the effort is to let things lie,
and to allow the fallen hands to tell the tale of when each clock had personally died.

Since the watch have all expired, their recollections stay alive,
but only in my tempered ears and in my sentimental eyes,
their ticking heartbeats cold and dead, vestiges inside my head,
bouncing, dancing fleeting notes, pale reminders, absent friends,
ever present, all but gone, I am forced to live with even
louder silence of their distant memory in virtuous but long forgotten song…

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