The Ticktack

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With every ticktack,
the fast ebbing dawn,
slowly kisses sunset,
into a fertile embrace of beautiful stars.

With every ticktack,
AM bows out of the stage.
And gives way, as PM takes the mic,
on the famished stage of tired curtains.

With every ticktack,
the first cry of a baby is heard.
The toddler perfects his walking and gradually,
he advances towards a third leg-a walking stick.

With every ticktack,
time wounds our heels with blisters.
And heals our wounds with yield,
of our sourjournings.

With every ticktack,
that once sound mind,
degenerates into a frail labyrinth,
of forgetfulness and senility.

With every ticktack,
closer, we are drawn to our graves.
Wearing that shroud,
into a perpetual sleep.

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