Clock Poem by Insignia Rose

Tick. Tock.
Clock.

Clocked out like a Tock.

To start again with a tick not a Tock,
is to end like a tick on a Tock.

Ti-Ock, skipped a beat.
Skipped the time, it ticked just to be.

Hour back, Minute up,
But these ticks are never uncut.

Yet...Tick.
Is not a Tock.

But a Tock after a Tick is like a clock in shock,
and those Tickity Tocks go bloom.

A little blue tune, invisibly I assume,
That the clock is like a tock to block.

As it runs away to flee,
an age can be,
something that is only mocked.

It's Ticks and Tocks,
are left to rot,
in the bitter orchestra,
of a little old Cot-
By the ocean, Blue.

Ti-Tiock Tick, Tock Tock;
There's the Clock, pick it's lock.

Jeweled a king, reigned his things,
And even watched as they rot.
Tickity Tockity Tock.

Yet the Ticks have become such to sing,
That everyone hums this midsummer fling;
Yet the inevitable ticks go Tock.

Tick. Tock.
That's the Clock.

But what is time? But an old sinisiter rhyme,
That kicks with a tock, on the tick of a Clock,
As a Tick, but maybe...a Tock?

Why a Clock.