Count the hours on the clock,
Shifting hands to softly mock,
The nagging tick of mortal flocks,
Atop this fetid, burdened rock

Arranged in dandy rows of twelve,
Nestled firm above the shelves,
They strum a tune for silent crowds,
To dust and grime and hellish clouds

Waiting for its muse to strike,
As if a match or flame alike,
It leaps from hours seeking rhythm,
To seize upon a growing schism

Ringing out, it quells the chime,
Weeping children stand in line,
Dead men all accused of crimes,
Against the grueling pace,
Of time

"These bleeding hands, tis' all you thought,
For now you see,
It's all a sign..."