My clock and I, we speak in skewed tongues;

Ticking, ticking, ticking. My old clock

And I, we sing songs we’ve long sung–

Ticking, ticking, ticking. It’s gears, my talk

We walk with steps locked, the rhythmic stomps

Thump–just ticking, ticking, ticking. The air in

Our quiet tomb, this ashbin for psychopomps,

Fills our waiting room, ticking, ticking, ticking.

“My clock,” I ask. “Will I find rest soon?

Though Heaven has turned away, and Hell has turned

To laugh?” But my clock just ticks its tune:

A ticking dirge my misfit sins have earned.

Alas, the clock spurns my prayerful weeping.

It leaves me here; no ticking, ticking, ticking.