The seconds inch by slowly

The difference between when I looked up 3 minutes ago

And now is so negligible I wonder

If time has flown backwards.



Each tick of the clock is answered

What seems like years later by a

Cruel, merciless tock in sick rendition

Of the famous child’s game, Marco Polo.



These painful noises

Resound in my ears

Echoing loudly back and forth…

Mocking me.



Time, it seems, has ceased to exist beyond

These penetrating knocks that threaten

To break down walls and unlock

Every dungeon door

Pushing reluctant light into repugnant crevices



Having been trapped behind iron,

These horrible things threaten to flood out of their cages

And poison all that is good.



And yet,

These knocks,

So reviled, so hated

Cease to cease.

Like the slow spread of a bruise

Cheered on by the pulse of blood like war drums.

These endless torments of ticks and tocks

Grow bigger and bigger;

Confining everything else into strong bars

Through which life is blocked

Until all that is left are those

Foul creatures that lurked in prisons

Until released by these knocks…

Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock…