Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Counting down the minutes of my life

On an old, sombre clock.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Upon each tick, one life ends.

But which is my tick?

When will my tragic, pointless life

Finally reach its end?

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

I could end it now myself,

But fear the depths of hell.

So I sit, and watch the clock.

Each tick draws out my life,

Stretching the minutes, hours, days.

Each new day brings grief and pain

Which only the clock can heal.

Tick. Tick. Where is mine?

Must I sit here always waiting?

I feel nothing. I am empty inside.

Tick. Tick. Silence.

He sat there, facing the broken clock.

He WAS the clock, and it was him -

And so they died together. But what of me?

There is nothing now but death.

Copyright © Catriona Elizabeth Mowat 2006