Clock Madness

I hear the tick, but it's so strange, its sound causes me such a strain.

Ripping at my brain, a hurricane uncontained.

Looking at a clock so warped, it has morphed into a different form.

Once an exquisite object that saved my life, now a burden in the night.

Its numbers drip bloody notes, a sad tone almost like a groan.

The hands are furiously running wild, one laughing at the unnatural bounds.

Seconds go back to touch hours, while minutes are coming from a darkened shower.

The tree is melting, its branches a black ooze.

The clocks friction, a dangerous flame filled with rage, has taken its refuge.