The clock ticks louder like a spike in the brain
and strangers look at you like you’re going insane.
And you walk a little faster, but the footsteps behind
don’t miss a beat or falter – they keep perfect time.
Born without a penny to our name,
all the good we don’t do is our final shame. Our
Long gone the days when you had a spring in your stride
and you swear you saw a shadow of the man with the scythe,
The graveyard silver shines bright in the morning sun
as you think of all the loved ones who’ve all moved on.
A tear in your eye is more for you than them,
no stopping the clock, from birth you’re long condemned.
Resigned you feel a last walk over your grave shiver
holding the outstretched hand of the comforting grim reaper.
©27.8.2018 Andrew Robert Chapman