As the second hand tics its way round the face,
The sounds of our timepieces beat our lament.
One minute of life disappears. Not a trace
Of a past that was filled with hope and intent.
Intent to live long with illustrious grace,
Not sullied with anger or sweetened torment.
So don’t look on the wall and wish time away,
At the end of your life, you will want one more day.
As the minute hand drags, the beats linger on.
The sound in your head screams. The chimes fill the hour.
Once sitting and thinking, that moment now done,
The thoughts of your ending turn sweet into sour.
Alone in the dark with a clock now long gone.
You sit with a pistol, feel strength in its power.
That lone round is chambered, a tear stains your cheek,
‘I’ll call time tonight, that won’t make me look weak’
The hour hand mocks as it wallows around,
I’m going full circle, I’m staying on track.
Now a diff’rent click is the ominous sound
Of a colt 45 as the bolts drawn back.
My worries. My fears. Now they start to compound,
No hope of redemption, my life’s a flashback.
The mind of a soldier, who’s seen to much war
Deep wounds and bad memories. No pride anymore.