The Clock

The clock was ticking from my first breath to my last,
And even when I stopped, and I did,
It never paused or stuttered.
What a cruel instrument.
I just wanted a break sometimes, you know?

Sometimes, the clock was the only sound I heard.
When I couldn’t feel my own heart beating,
It was there, in my ears.
A solid, unchangeable thing.
I wanted to throw it away from me and run.

The clock reminded me of where I was when I forgot.
It told me what was and is and might be,
And so I learned to hope and remember.
A strange form of everything.
I gripped it hard when there was nothing else.

Somewhere, the clock had my name written on it,
And so I selfishly thought it was mine, but I was wrong.
Who will inherit it after me?
A tease, a player, a liar.
It hurts that something so important to me was never mine.