like a tin cup scraping along iron bars
was the clank of the clock
no longer a liquid, lingering of seconds
but a staccato rapid fire of time
signaling the approach of my farewell rhyme

the man in black asked again if I wanted to pray
and mumbled something somber about judgment day
but I really heard nothing
beyond the light's florescent hum
and had no illusions
about what was to come

in the world of “before this room”
when my rage ripped life from limb
I had known that closing my eyes a final time
would open them to the wretched writhing of
nothing

still
in these last lapping of seconds
with the needle patiently waiting a few feet away
I heard echoes of those oft chanted lines
about some kingdom at hand
one that I could never enter
even if it were really there