Tick tock, tick tock, the clock swung left, then right
Tick tock, tick tock, the clock swung right then left
Her heart mirrored the movement of the Pendulum stick with each swing
Her lips, both wet and dry, hit her gstring
The vision of sugar and plums not present
Her confession is due on the first of the month's rent
Her hands were all sweaty and tight
Yet she knew she had to win this fight
Her mind blended like the swirls of cotton candy
Seeping into her soul was the truth untold
But in just a moment, it would all unfold
Her breath held a hint of brandy
Like the remnants of a wet dream, the air held scents of foreboding
She was left to finish the decoding
It began with a truth
She was named the sleuth
Decipher what had always been in plain sight
Yet she would have to overcome her fright
Tick tock, tick tock, the clock swung left, then right
Tick tock, tick tock, the clock swung right then left
Her mind began to swirl
Her heart began to swell
The moment of truth was at hand
As she held the wedding band
Her heart mirrored the movement of the pendulum stick with each swing
Her lips, both wet and dry, hit her gstring
Confession time was at hand
She was clearly on uncharted land
One step, two steps, her throat tighten
In a few moments, her heart would lighten
The words were like coal on a blazing fire
Courage was her squire
The object of her affection licked her lips
Sending the blood vessels some well-needed tips
Her eyes are no longer blind
Her heart began to unwind
Tick tock, tick tock, the clock swung left, then right
Tick tock, tick tock, the clock swung right then left
Her emotions considered the theft
Taking them both on a flight
No longer held captive by the torture of silence
Her confession was her license
Her response was the gas
They were together at last
About the Creator
EYHCS
Poet by birth. Writer by craft. Artist by nature. I write poems, prose, short stories, fiction, and realism works of art dissecting the human condition and the resilience of the human mind. Many of my pieces are metaphoric stanzas.
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181 Keeping Watch
Each day she watched through her window. Watched? Perhaps an exaggeration: a monochromatic nuclear aftermath remaining of the world, blurring into a blindness--loss of contrast and depth of field. Achromatic aberrations displayed a waste-scape stratified in grays.
By Gerard DiLeo2 days ago in Fiction
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