That bloody clock
Bleeding with tomorrow’s promises.
The pages slowly creep closed.
Creaking like the soft spaces between a broken grandfather clock’s chimes.
I cease to hear them as they die down.
Unless they want something of course.
Then the blood stains are back to clear the ink and the clock is more than punctual.
Yet between is a broken record.
Failure to change the tune.
Turn over a new leaf.
Leave them to burn.
Perhaps I am the culprit.
Perhaps it’s me bleeding with tomorrow’s promises.
Perhaps there’s less ticking left in my clock.
Perhaps there’s no words left in my…..
© G.P Williamson 2017