Page 8: the twelfth 'tock'
"Tick-tock, tick-tock, there goes the clock."
an ethereal goddess, a demented muse,
standing, watching, relishing the view
they stand on the lush terra from opposing sides
unknowing of macabre writings, living different lives.
she hovers above the earth about a few centimeters
watching her children collapse and wither
eternally smiling /crying/ as the cycle resets itself
the goddess, once more, counts from one to twelve.
he is encased by plethoras of scrolls inked with irony
riddled with emotions, juxtaposed obsession and acrimony
weaving lies with calloused hands and a silver tongue
and a one, two, three, he's about to be undone.
from fetus to dust, she watches them age
as her children of flesh live inside an ozone cage
thriving, multiplying, inventing machines of such brilliance,
who knew these humans could be capable of such intelligence?
he gazes at the svelte form far, far away,
with the sand falling, minuscule seconds going into waste
the clock still goes with its mantra of ticks and tocks
yet he is to wither, for her beauty has him locked.
wrinkling skin, yellowing teeth, and the curtains fall down
he exhales one last time as he leaves without a sound.
another one of her children had gone to leave
the goddess sighs, weeping tears of pure melancholy
years turn to seconds, and flesh reverts to dust
and she finally decides that she has seen enough.
the now wandering muse seals his non-existent eyes
to avoid facing this unearthly plane devoid of life
no longer possessing his nimble hands and silver tongue
he finally accepts the fact what he weaved had been reduced to naught
a girl of unknown age kneels before the myriad of stars
seemingly near, and yet at the same time so far
she lets go of the ghostly trails tangling at her grasp
and murmurs a farewell with all the breath she has.
two lost souls mingling with the skies
one a demented muse, the other a goddess from the high
they both flee the earth which had done nothing but mock
as the clock finally reaches the twelfth tock.
-0-0-0-0-
YOU ARE READING
staccatos and mangled melodies
Short Story—and thus, these are the heartfelt compositions of a demented composer whose mentality may or may not be slightly skewed. she feels the rhythm, she hears the harmony, and she sees the notes. you, oh dear audience, play a vital role in this fantastic...
