The Clock

The tick, tick, ticking of the clock, clock, clock sticks sharply in my ears.

As I sit quiet and alone in the cold sterile room.

Veins drained for answers to mysteries not yet told, and histories still felt in the cold.

Sometimes nature repeats the stories that came before, but doubt still leaves hope.

The tick, tick, ticking of the clock, clock, clock sticks sharply in my ears.

Echoing the last words, a father ever told.

If you do, you do. If you don’t, you don’t. There’s no time left for regret.

But I do not fret just yet, because doubt still leaves hope.

The tick, tick, ticking of the clock, clock, clock sticks sharply in my ears.

As I hear a story of a battle born in blood, foretold by birth.

Leaving a path of destruction beneath my skin.

Digging open graves in my mind.

The tick, tick, ticking of the clock, clock, clock sticks sharply in my ears.

An answer to my fears is not yet here,

but doubt still leaves hope.