Tick.
It begins like a melody,
Making its way
Through our eminently loathsome
Kingdom, dismay.
Moving like serpents, it draws near,
Cursing all good,
Damning even the most lovely
Of crafted wood.
Then comes the chorus, sweet, tempting,
Fusing all ends
Into abysmal corrosion,
Forging sheer bends.
Tick.
Finally the doom of that foul thing
Falls with a clash.
When the end comes where will you be?
Time is most rash.
I now strike it down, abject tool
Of Satan's son!
Time is not forever merely
For times past spun.
Beautiful, hopeless, that awful
Contraption, time,
Falls to its death-bed, decrepit,
Ruing its crime.
Silence now plots the blight of forever,
Hoping to foil its black endeavor.
Review