The clock face stares through hollow glass,
Watching the dust, as hours pass.
The ink is dried in open book,
Here meaning pines for one last look.
The flame starves devoid of wood,
I’d reach to feed it if I could.
A hallowed frame clings at the wall,
It hides in shadows 'ere it fall.
A heartbeat is a rhythmic chore,
A drum that echoes nothing more.
The final sparks begin to grey,
The darkness grows and has its way.