in bed
on a wind
filled night
I lie

his gaze
stuck to the
back of my
head like glue

and in the
faint flashes
that fill my
window panes

the black
limbs of trees
mimic his
jarring appearance

"Tick... Tock"
the cat-eyed
clock on my
wall proclaims

"Tick... Tock"
it repeats
the thud of the
minute hand
strikes again

and when the
hands reach
1:34 AM
he smiles

caressing the
shadows on the
walls he maneuvers
the room

snaking through
the dark crevices
of the grey-
blue backwash

for a moment
the wind
stops and the
streets wait;
void of cars

and in its
absence would
there be
silence?

"Tick... Tock"
a car passes
and the wind
howls as before

a brief opportunity
of clarity
has presented
itself

I turn over
to a room
shrouded by
a dim gray
and  

there he sits
his toothy grin
and lifeless
eyes

staring into my
soul as he
waits in my
desk chair

and sometimes
I wonder
if the Clock
Man brings me

to the place
where he
comes from
or where
he goes next

and I simply
pass it off
and say it
was a dream

but I really
wonder why
he always
comes back