The Grandfather Clock

Tick.

The grandfather clock,
at the edge of the room:
a guard against chaos,
it whispers of doom.

Tock.

Its Pendulum swings
in a smooth gentle sway,
that pushes the hands
as it measures each day.

Tick.

With each second a tick
and each hour a chime,
It's rhythm belies
the unfairness of time.

Tock.

To innocent boys,
it crawls and then stops;
in fits and small spurts,
it measures out drops.

Tick.

To tired old men,
the hands seem to spin
as they try to recall
the places they've been.

Tock.

To middle aged men,
it gives a small smirk
as they hurry about
to finish their work.

Tick.

Each man and each boy
is acutely aware
how the clock measure time
when he gives it a stare.

Tock.

And deep in his soul
each one has no doubt:
the clock measures time
as it beats his life out.

Tick.

For to measure the time
is to speak of its end.
And none is told when
his time is to end.