POETRY LINKS

Tick goes the cherry grandfather clock–

A sound I will soon not forget as it was

Followed by the ever repetitious tock.

Who am I, and why am I here you ask?

Indeed a question that lurks in my mind,

So shrouded in the purple veiled mists.

It was nearing the morning, with mists,

Eyes squeezed tight, my heart was my clock.

One foot stepped out, right out of my mind,

Or so it seemed and then so it really was.

“Over here,” the whispered voice did ask,

With harmony perfectly in tune with each tock.

Keenly hearing the slight ticks and each tock,

I nearly drown in fright: real tangible mists.

“Who are you,” we pleadingly ask?

Seconds brought pounding, a paced clock,

Buried within my chest echoed as if it was

Drowning even me, burning into my mind!

Turning to the mirror, in the corner of my mind,

Terror coursed through me at the last tock!

Lurid eyes of the yellow feverish kind was

Staring.  Just peering through the mists.

It was then I noticed the silence of the clock.

The oppressive absence of sound, though I did not ask!

I tried to swallow, I could not. I dared not ask,

I dared not speak, I dared not whispered my mind!

Where was this no silent and deceased clock?

Why were there no more repetitive tocks?

Then it happened, I dropped into the mists:

Lost, I struggled to move, unknown who I was.

Only those feral pale eyes trailed as if it was

Some demonic being sent to forever ask,

Illusive questions thru whispers across the mists

And so driving stakes into my mortal mind!

Always questions of the damning ticks and tock,

Inquisitions of the immortal cherry clock!

I was sweating when I awake as if it was

A true terror from the mists of a mind!

At that second the clock sounded its final tick and tock—