The Clock
When the baby was born they bought a gift,
It was a shiny, wooden-brown wall clock.
Every second, each baby's breath would count
With the clock will the baby grow through time
And as that passed, the clock would count the years
It still ticked on when he was ten years old.
It would tick on when he was decades old.
In time, he began to realise the gift.
A subconscious part of him over years
Very used to the ticking of this clock
A stability to him over time.
It would be there for him, seconds to count.
He got married, had kids, it would still count.
Six foot tall, he grew a beard and got old.
His form largely transformed over much time
Constant in appearance remained the gift.
He would sigh calmly when he saw the clock
It brought him peace and rest over the years.
Closing his eyes, he reflected on years
The clock still patiently would for him count.
His age-old relationship with the clock
Compassionate friend at sixty years old,
Even his wife would relinquish the gift
Since she knew it re-lived with him through time.
The clock still ticked over decades of time
His hair now cotton white as all his years
Still counting - every moment now a gift.
Nothing more important than life to count.
Metrically it was the same age old
As himself - he was as old as the clock.
But now he was dying and old, the clock
Would still tick. Death would consume him in time.
A good life, but now a century old
Illness would now engulf all of his years.
Before he died, he would the ticking count
Now in blackness - what would be of his gift?
The man died, the clock stopped - no more the gift.
A century would it all this time count -