The Clock Poem by Blake Nox Gama

Those hands point accusingly at me,
Mocking, jeering me
Lambasting me
Arrogant voices, listing all
The things not yet accomplished.

I'm paralysed by the sepulchral silence
Untouched by Death and Sleep,
There's no solace under the Moon.

I was asked of the thing that frightens me
Most of all—
It is not empty rooms, empty halls,
It is not graves nor mausoleums,
It is not blood nor tears—

It is that despicable, silent
Clock hanging on the wall
Hanging like an axe over my head.
Silently judging me, saying my sentence
Silent until the day it silences me.
Forever frozen and then gone forever.