Tick...Tock...

Tick… tock…
Hearing the clock.
Waiting for the quiet knock,
Waiting for the turning of the lock,
Absorbed in your increasing panic,
As you look at the door knob
And see it turn
Slowly
Smoothly
Light dancing
On the shiny brass
Like the shell of a golden egg
The tiny bright spark
Caused by the sunlight
From the window
In the small
Room.

Tick… tock…
Again, your heart thumping
In time
With the second hand.
The door knob turns
Slowly
Smoothly
And the door
Opens with a high tweak
Of badly oiled hinges

And the man in a
Dark suit
And a
Black tie
With a
Black briefcase
Walks in

Sits opposite you.
Tick… tock…

He gives you a dark look.
Tick… tock…
He opens a
Leather-bound
Smooth
Book.

Tick… tock…

Picks up a Parker pen.
Observes you carefully
Cautiously.

Tick… tock…

From shaking with fright
And worry
A bead of cold sweat
Runs down your temple.

Tick… tock…
Onto the grubby carpet.

You are not bound, yet
You cannot move.

You are a free prisoner.
You are imprisoned by your
Conscience.

Tick… tock…

Tick...Tock...

iridatherra

Joined October 2007

  • Artist
    Notes

Artist's Description

A view of internal struggle.

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