The clock is digging our grave. Every day, every hour, every withering second– a quiet worker in the dark, humming as it goes.
Some clocks dig with malice,
their hands flailing like a strangled child,
Their seconds falling heavy as dirt on a coffin.
Others move gently, almost tauntingly,
lifting only a breath of soil at a time.
The clock digs whether we watch or not.
Some try to bind its hands and lock up its face,
pretending stillness means safety–
But even silence keeps its rhythm.
The clock is digging your grave,
Its shape contorts to reflect your growing fear.
The clock is digging my grave, each tick another scoop.
Each tock another closing breath.
And I can’t help but listen to every strike of the shovel.
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 9:17 AM UTC
The clock is digging our grave. Every day, every hour, every withering second– a quiet worker in the dark, humming as it goes.
Some clocks dig with malice,
their hands flailing like a strangled child,
Their seconds falling heavy as dirt on a coffin.
Others move gently, almost tauntingly,
lifting only a breath of soil at a time.
The clock digs whether we watch or not.
Some try to bind its hands and lock up its face,
pretending stillness means safety–
But even silence keeps its rhythm.
The clock is digging your grave,
Its shape contorts to reflect your growing fear.
The clock is digging my grave, each tick another scoop.
Each tock another closing breath.
And I can’t help but listen to every strike of the shovel.