Time waits for no man,
He beckons with crooked finger.
Turning grey and rotten with each twist.
The trickle of ticks and tocks.
Blast that broken clock.
I can never wind it backwards.
Death counting bits of sand
Analog all done by hand.
Picked you didn't I, precious?
Plucking out another grain
Only a few more that remain..
Soon the field will be barren.
Soon..
Thunderclaps at the doors of hell
Staring into darkened mirrors, the lips that tell.
The chains that bind, smoking at the edges of perception.
The creep of fingers on your spine.
Sorry, mate. You're out of time.
Down comes the axe on another neck.
Will it be king or crown, next?
Image source: https://pixabay.com/photos/skull-skull-bones-death-4221695/
Much love,
