Sometimes the day
doesn't end when
those idle hands
reach the promised land.
When they lock
their grasp tightly together
in a coupled nightly joining.
A confluence of timing
gathering to praise the moon,
before they part again.
Sometimes they are
praising too soon.
and time carries on,
in a peculiar pattern.
Sometimes the clock chimes 13 times.
The veil between worlds faintly shines,
splitting the universe in two.
Those haunted few pouring through
so, they can stagger these streets
on their ill-fitting borrowed feet.
It clicks with a creak, not a tick so to speak,
more like the lid of a coffin being tweaked.
The bells don't ring,
they chime with laughter.
Evil and menacing.
The pendulum doesn't swing,
it slices into the segmented hours,
cutting them into bite-sized chunks
hunks of meat, much easier to devour.
The clock perseveres,
carries on, to welcome over the evil ones.
It doesn't tick or chime,the sound more severe,
it flitters across the grimacing face,
severing the threads one by one,
until time is erased and it stands alone,
with just its own sands of time for company
echoing a dull ringing in the ears perpetually.
Minutes can be hours,
seconds can last for eternity
Moments become mountains,
or untimely cosmic monstrosities.
The clock chimes 11, 12,
and we delve into the nighttime spell,
expecting silence to now dwell,
but that sound rings again. 13.
Only this time it screams in pain,
An echo from somewhere unseen
far away in the undercurrent
of an animal growl, it howls like wolves
asking the moon for guidance.
We could go into hiding.
Probably should,
because in this mysterious time
there is no good, just the slow rumble
of the clock spinning.
The seconds and minutes tumble
Whilst the hands stay
exactly where they are,
air thinning and hollow,
and the hours never seen to follow.
Thanks for reading
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