The Time of Fears

                                                                    By: Pete Sutcliffe

      I contemplate silently submersed in my thoughts and space, while the timepiece ticks my life away with haste. Every tick and tock makes my death draw near as I rest here.
                                                         By minutes; by the hours.
                                         By the days that I can withhold from time’s evil grip.
Two black arms dance around this face, I tear from my fears while it slowly carries out my                                                                        fate, of which I impatiently await.
                                            It drains upon the hour, all of my coveted power.
I am fixated on its face every second. As it beckons my final days on the hour I cower when fewer hours retain my power. I stare with no care nor feeling as I steer on the edge of sane.
                         OH! How it ticks my blessed years away, until I cease to stay.
                      Its numerical expressions leave me impressions of the my undoing that  mans’ creation has   brought forth upon me. . .
                     As the dawn reveals the dusk and the dusk unveils the dawn, I am forbidden to forestall my presence of this accursed realm.
                       OH! How this pale face tantalizes me! For it will inevitably win the race. . .