When The Watch Stops Ticking

As the sand in the glass cease to fall,

A metaphor we do employ;

When chimes from our walls stop as well,

Into a stupor we soon fly.

 

As we no longer can hear the tick

Nor our sheets dance to the tock,

In impatience our dreams grow sick,

Inveigl our hours in eternity and lock.

 

As the toll that rang two hours back

To tell us of our bronze tomb,

Now sits in wait in glimmering black

Scripting epitaphs for our doom.

 

In remembrance of nocturnal lights

That amber dispelled for us to wake;

While we in our beds solemnly lie,

Wondering if ever dawn shall break.