If Time Breaks Down

Tick, tick, ticking.
If time breaks down,
and all the watches,
shudder to a stop,
leaving us with silence
where their maddening ticking
should be,
will we crave the sound
we imagine would drive us mad
like the tell-tale heart
of a Poe poem of old?

Tick, tick, ticking.
At a quarter past midnight
in the obsidian black,
with a clock creeping
slowly toward the witching hour,
sleepless we await the end,
of sleeplessness,
and hate the
monotonous sound,
so like a beating heart.

Tick, tick, ticking.
I imagine it is no less
comforting for a bomb technician
to count down
minutes and seconds,
knowing that as the hands
inch closer to midnight,
or high noon,
that an end does not bring comfort,
but an end, none the less.

Tick, tick, ticking.
The clock's steady,
irritating pulse
mocks me as I lay here.
I wonder if anything is on TV,
besides infomercials
and advertisements for sleep aids
and comfortable mattresses.
Perhaps I will read a bit,
the final chapters in
the Dark Tower saga await.

Tick, tick, ticking.
If time breaks down,
and all the watches,
shudder to a stop,
leaving us with silence
where their maddening ticking
should be,
will we crave the sound
we imagine would drive us mad
or will we finally,
eternally sleep?