THE DEATHCLOCKS

When the clocks stop ticking, it's too late.

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Deep in a shop on a crooked street

where rain and darkness always meet

an old clockmaker worked alone

among the gears and aged stone.

A sound would echo through the night

like little heartbeats dressed in fright.

A thousand clocks upon the wall

would breathe and tick in endless call.

TIK TAK...

He wound each dial with shaking hands

adjusted springs and rusted bands.

For every clock inside the room

was tied to someone’s living doom.

The villagers would always speak

of why the old man looked so weak.

Or why at every stroke of ten

he’d rush to wind the clocks again.

For if a single clock should fail

then somewhere, someone’s life would pale.

Their final breath, their final cry

and in that moment, they would die.

One winter night the thunder roared

like angry gods outside the door.

While every clock began to shake

as though the earth itself would break.

TIK TAK…

TIK TAK…

TIK…

TAK…

One little clock began to slow

it's fragile hands moved weak and low.

The old man turned as pale as bone

and whispered, “Oh… not this one… no…”.

He grabbed his tools with frantic dread

cold beads of sweat rolled down his head.

His trembling fingers fought the chain

while all the clocks screamed through the rain.

TIK TAK!

TIK TAK!

The tiny seconds would not wait

the slowing tick became fate.

Then suddenly the clock stood still

the shop itself grew deathly chill.

Silence.

And from the darkness of the hall

one final knock came through the wall.

The old man closed his weary eyes

for somewhere far away, one dies.

Then softly from the corner black

another clock began:

TIK TAK…

TIK TAK…

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