I hate the sound of a ticking clock.
On and on it goes,
It’s enough to drive me mad.
It hangs there on the wall,
an unblinking face
staring at me.
I plug my ears,
turn my back,
but I can still hear the ticking.
I hasten from room to room,
shutting all doors in my path,
but still, the ticking is present.
I wrap it in a thousand cloths,
and bury it six feet underground,
but the ticking is unyielding,
ever present in my ears.
No matter what I do
the ticking follows me,
always marking every second.
Reminding me of the ones I’ve wasted,
the tens, the hundreds, the thousands,
and of the ones stolen from me,
the millions, the billion, the trillions.
Sometimes the ticking hides,
perfectly matches my pulse,
but I know it’s there.
I can feel its voice resonating in my ear.
Away they go,
never to be regained.
that my limited time grows ever smaller.
Each a moment of my life
being sucked away.
And there’s nothing I can do
to stop the ticking clock.
There’s nothing anyone can do.
(I had my analogue watch in my ear when I wrote this and the room was silent except for the ticking. I really do hate the noise. I hope I didn’t go overboard with the “tick-tocks” because I originally had a version with much fewer ones, but as the night wore on and I became more annoyed with my ticking watch, more and more got added. My intension is that they add to feeling of, well, insanity.)
Comments about this poem (*Ticking Clock by Jane Meyer )
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