Forgotten like a book of romanticized rhyme,
The past is gone, but a moment in time.
The heart akin to ticking grandfather clock,
The stroke of midnight chimes with a shock.
Winding down with an antique chime,
Reminding us all we are out of time.
Could I have done more with my life?
Or just destine to be a lover, mother and wife?
Will my demise make a ripple in time?
or abandoned like romanticized rhyme.
The clock is winding down, slowly halting,
Unconfessions guilt evermore revolting.
Time and again I seek wisdom and light,
Forgiveness comes arduous with hindsight.
The grandfather chimes with an enfeebled din,
Inviting death with his patient, skeletal grin.
Holding the key that sustains the clock.
Standing outside, poised to knock.
Keeping vigil to fading heart-beats,
Ever so gradually the ticking retreats.
Like the grandfather clock slowly winding down,
The sound of silence so damned profound.
With my demise will mourning be shown?
A reticent clock assures me, we all die alone.