Tick, Tick, Tick
Ken L. Jones
Her trickling blood is like a drooled upon candy apple
That makes me afraid of the arsenic of the coming night
The bone white branches of the trees in my backyard
Whisper tattletale confessions of all that they have witnessed
To the wilted blossoms near the bottom of their feet
And as they do this the sinister moth tattered crows
Who have long loitered in their upper regions
Escape into the dark minor chord dream sounds of the unhinged frost
That these unexpected decades have coroneted
And though I killed her years ago and hid her in the wall
The spilled wine of my impulsive act still forms a puddle in the hall
And sometimes on a quiet midnight I swear that she still mocks me
As she insults me and berates me through skeleton teeth
Once housed in a mouth that is surely no longer even there
And though some might think that justice has escaped me
Still I am kept a prisoner here
Shackled by worse than chains
As each second drags by like a century of guilt and fear
And I am not even sure that death will free me
For I know that she awaits me behind that particular unasked for door
Itching for a vengeance long drawn out and steamy
As she finally settles all our scores
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