Tick, tick, tick.
The clock hands are all heading for twelve,
And there is nothing I can do to stop them.
Perhaps I could break the clocks.
Tear their hands from their faces,
Scatter their cogs on the floor.
But I don’t. I know it will not help.
For no matter how many timepieces I destroy,
The clock hands will still reach twelve.
Tick, tick, tick.
I’ve tried to look the other way.
But time is a tricky thing to hide from.
It is indefinite and exact, constant and ongoing.
And it knows not its own value.
I’ve played my part, fulfilled my role,
And in this I make my exit.
Tick, tick, tick
Twelve will be my final hour, when I shall meet my ‘justice’.
Under the midday sun, as the church bell rings,
The hour is near and they have all come for me.
The tides still flow, the sun still rises,
I am no longer scheming escape.
My life and my innocence are inconsequential to time.
For all the clock hands are heading for twelve,
And there is nothing anyone can do to stop them.
Tick, tick, tick.
Anna Ross lives in North Yorkshire and works as a university administrator. She greatly enjoys reading and writing stories and poems of all shapes and sizes. Her short stories have been published across a range of anthologies. Though she is noted amongst her peers for writing literature with dark underlying themes and messages she is actually a very friendly person in the real world.
Foxglove Journal 