The Clocks, 1992

Crickets chirp in blades of grass.
The clocks! The clocks!
They tick too fast.
The birds sing happy morning songs.
Today is always all but gone.

Brittle like a crumpled flower,
held by childhood hands—
holding onto every hour,
the hourglass, and it’s sand.

Catch this moment, fading fast:
tightly grip it in your clasp,
dare deadly terrors reach you last;
let it not from in thy grasp.

Clouds! They billow up above,
our Sun too soon to go away;
softly singing like the doves,
she sleeps all night, and works all day.

The clocks! The clocks!
They tick; they tock.
They tick and tock,
and will not stop!

As time goes by,
they all tick faster;
through hope and love,
and then disaster.

Through pleasure, pain,
and falling rain.
Always will it stay the same.

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