The Ticking Clock

The clock has stood in the corner of the room

since the days when our love first did bloom.

Second by second, hour by hour,

it watched as the bloom turned into a flower.

Over the years it tenderly ticked and tocked,

chiming with every new hour clocked.

The sound that filled the room a faithful companion

while the face of the place changed with the passing fashion.

Some days the room was colder than times that’d gone.

But still, that constant clock kept ticking on.

Now, day by day the clock is slowing,

showing signs of its prophetic knowing.

It stands quite high as it sombrely ticks,

empathising with every tear that drips.

One day the chiming will come to a still,

marking the end of a terminal ill.

And on that day when the room will silent be,

the broken, old clock will stand helplessly;

unable to make its cogs restart;

unable to mend this broken, old heart.