Ink and Letters

The Clock

I stare at the ceiling while I listen to its ticking

Slow, but, has a proper rhythm and beating

It goes on, the hands never stopping

The lonely sounds accompany my crying

I made a glimpse on its round face

And my eyes were met by darkness and solace

I closed my eyes and illusions took place

Of freedom, of forgiveness, of regrets, of grace

If only I could turn those two ugly hands back

Maybe now, all I have is wealth and luck

But no, I cannot and here I am in a crack

With a stone for my grave and a heart for a rock

The clock is moving faster than before

Then I thought I heard someone opening the door

Time has come, I wish I had more

But the verdict is here and I am sore.