The Clock At Zero Hour

The clock at zero hour freezes in the ivory tower, with a face fixed to extol a chime of midnight for the soul. When the hands will sweep no more the whistle-blower snares the corps, studied with alarmist eyes this life expectancy of flies. Is the waiting so severe, with the outcome yet unclear, that the mind may not conceive when death is gnawing at the sleeve? Never once the dogs of war retracted savage tooth or claw, so what organic could withstand this butcher’s yard in no man’s land? Roll out a circus ruled by freaks, where hangs an atmosphere that reeks of desperation and dismay and generations blown away. The clock at zero hour bates the breath and tramps the flower in the grist of flesh and mud, petals drowned in death and blood.