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.