The Clock Leads the Loneliest of Lives

These rafters rattle furious at the height of the storm-
moan and thunder for their freedom like the gentiles.
The leaves scratch the panes of the half-shattered window
where the rain slices through, like torpedoes on the wind
nearly splintering the hard wooden planks where our story unfolds.

Joining this tempestuous symphony is a creaking floor-
where the broken, abandoned little child rocks
back and forth, back and forth amidst mother nature’s fury.
Lightning cracks the sky, scarring her face with light,
and softly she cries, but not from fright.

The dark is too bright to discern the looming scene.
The floor is caked with the sticky residue of sorrow,
of the fear she fought to subdue-
a pooling maliciousness she thought she had dreamed-
she cannot fake its reality, its finality now.

Lightning breaks this scene again,
catching on a sliver of metal hidden amongst the cobwebs and rigor decay.
Its ferocious teeth glimmer, highlighting her tears, her eyes.
It is in them that her actions are defined.
With poetic justice, she stopped time.


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