Tick Tock

Tick tock.
Pile up behind me like mountains.
Burying thoughts.
Burying people.
Beneath the tick, the sins,
Beneath the tock, the Saint,
And this body is dragged forward,
By time’s strings,
Moving rapidly along the trajectory,
That makes me feel dizzy,
As if the steering has come off,
And my fingers grip the dismembered wheel.

Dismembered ticks, tocking inside my grey matter,
Synapses, networks, ticking like a time bomb,
Choke holds, a strangling, a smothering,
Felt behind my sullen eyes,
Beneath me the foundation laid,
For the ghost town Infront of me.

Tick tock.
I force myself to sit upon the cushioned bourgeois table chair,
Tick tock.
I force my consumerist, prosumerist, politically correct soul to breathe the air,
Tick tock tick.
Deep breaths, inhale exhale, each cycle a whale in the turbulent ocean in my head,
Tick tock tick.
It is a storm inside, turbulent, violent, and unforgiving like revenge – inhale, exhale.

Seconds gather dust behind me like ruins of a lost kingdom,
Minutes and hours rise up behind me like cities and skyscrapers,
Days, weeks and months pass me by, mountains burying it all,
Years, decades, and it’s another world beneath my feet.

Tick tock
Every second I fight, struggle, strive and steady my ship,
Tick tock,
Every second I believe the breathing of the wind that blows wherever it wishes,
Tick tock tick,
Everyday I build, my arms and fingers calloused my heart light,
Tick tock tick,
And this ghost town that clouded my vision seems to sprout colour, shape, meaning and beauty.

And now I close my eyes,
An emptiness fills and fulfills my soul,
A tree in the distant darkness in the depths of my shut eyed void,
A song, a melody of thankfulness and grace rises in my heart,
It grips my soul, wets my eyes, moves my lips and arms,
And it lifts me to a mountain, where there is a glorious light,
And I look back,
Not in regret,
But thankfulness.

For the trail looks chaotic and broken,
But under this tree, grace has taken root, and the man,
Who hung upon it, has spoken.

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