I slowly hear it,
the churning ticking of my clock.
Blearily the days fly by,
wearily my eyes become dry
from staring all day long at the ceiling,
and fairing all these years without complaining.
I admit I can't stay long,
to hear the churning ticking of my clock.
And by each resounding strike the mock tell-tale heart
doth lie to me of wasted minutes in which
I stay ultimately routed in this very spot
only to lay, to cast aside these unfinished dreams of mine.
I go insane just hearing that agonizing,
that churning ticking of my clock.
Every day I let out a cry to see it all dwindle,
and by night I sigh from the sheer exhaustion
that comes with this love, loathing and hate
as out the window, like a dove, time flies.