Wasted, Time

It was four days to her thirtieth birthday,
And the taunting clock laughed at her account.
“This age will be nothing of what you expect,
For I begin my count.”


Each day, she’d awake,
A new morning, but same routine.
It grew old, so old, that she grew weary.
“Tick-tock. Tick-tock.” It was not unseen.


Her life was hectic, each hour filled.
A break was all she needed.
But the clock would not slow.
“Tick-tock. Tick-tock.” The clock proceeded.


Oh, how time ran from her.
Slipped through graceful fingers,
The minutes passed as night grew.
“Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock,” The clock lingers.


Her youthful face grew tired, so tired.
Her exhausted legs could no longer walk.
There was no escape, no door that locked.
How the clock mocked her, “Tick-tock. Tick-tock.”


Each time she closed her eyes
To where peace was not under lock,
There was always that calculating clock, whispering,
“Tick-tock. Tick-tock.”



Desperate for silence, deep and imperturbable,
She swallowed that incessant clock.
Yet, in her stomach, it still chimed.
“Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock.”


One week passed, then two.
Her eyes, still heavy like a rock.
And the clock continued.
“Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock.”


Oh, and it would not stop.
It was her time, she knew.
At the prime age of thirty-five,
Her pale lips whispered once more, “Tick-tock, adieu.”


And the faint sound could be heard,
A clock calculating for a final tally
The amount of times he warned her,
About her grand finale.


“Tick-tock, my dear.”





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