The crooked clock ticked,
Its cogs a-work,
Old, strong and sure.
All time passed by,
As it seemed,
While she waited by the door.
A true candle lit,
Against the dark,
Bright, soft and warm.
The wax, it pooled,
While she waited in frozen form.
As gently as the clock did tick,
As the candle burned its last,
A pale pearl light crept its way
Across the window pane.
Here at last,
The coming dawn, the new born day.
At its presence, she did but sigh,
A feeble hand rose a-breast,
A simple pendant hung a-chain,
Did her fingers clasp.
The cool smooth metal on her skin,
The lover lost, the memories found,
The secrets held within.
Its touch was full and her breath became a rasp.
But as a tear caught in her eye,
A glimpse of sorrow wetting her cheek
And the day now at the door,
A lonely smile played upon her lips.
And the clock ticked once more.
