Clocks,

are like perpetual nightmares

plastered and sewn together

in. that. way.

with the stitches bleak and aching,

made from each growing second,

the t i c k i n g of each

getting closer with its

long and dreary hands

reaching for your neck to

strangle you,

drown you in its depths

until you're

tugging at your silvered hair

dusting off the cobwebs of your

wedding dress and you

sputter out your last words

(of love and life and

c a r o u s e l s),

drop to your tired knees and

give up to its final

laughing and melodic screaming

defeat, because you've finally

withered away.

-

It was too late before you noticed, that the lullabies were dimming into ticks and tocks and the clocks were forming in the shadows with the growing spiders left for you to see...

-

the /child/and the /clock/, together, die in -harmony.-