Melancholic Clock
It ticks. It ticks. It ticks.
Typewriter poems won’t fix the melancholy
Seizing my throat
Like a man maddened by disease,
Foaming at the mouth with fear and a quiet “please”.
.
It’s got me by the nape of the neck.
It’s bitten through the softest spot of skin,
Sunk its teeth into my blood.
I can feel the current of red slosh against
The smooth canines of misery.
.
I am a broken clock
Ticking slow enough to never be right.
Slow enough to know I am marching
Futilely through the sludge of madness,
The slimy fiction of reality.
.
Typewriter poems won’t fix this melancholy.
The letters still drip to the page.
The letters still drip to the page.
I am stuck behind the pendulum as the sorrow ticks.
.
It sways, taps like a pecking bird
From side to side and I am trapped
In the rhythm of sorrow.
The rhythm of despair.
_____________________________
Silver Serpent Books
About the Creator
Silver Serpent Books
Writer. Interested in all the rocks people have forgotten to turn over. There are whole worlds under there, you know. Dark ones too, even better.
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Comments (1)
I like the way repetition is used to instill a feeling of looping despair. It feels like the pendulum is swinging but the hands aren't moving.