I glanced at a ticking pocketwatch, and it glanced at me,
Whispered into my frail body a hymn, hush'd tenderly;
"Listen now, through your whiskers white,
Let yourself your anguish ignite,
Glistens sand with blood and rain,
Shrivels the leaf, sans poor blame,
For every bloom, ten leaves do die,
Yet you hear not their flowers cry."
Staring through its glass façade, I betrothed pain, I agreed.
The pocketwatch lies still, beneath the surface of the sea,
Coveted by avaracious ghouls, ticks ever saintly,
"Here I lie upon all the men that were.
My woeful hand now ticks to those interred,
They whose breath beneath their rubble lies,
Above whose grave, flowers bloom to die.
Yet chased am I till I myself prey,
On avaracious souls at play."
Had seekers of his youthful charm known, what would life be?
The same pocketwatch, may rest beneath, that same sea today,
But the same rapacious ghouls of yore, do now preach, they say;
"The eye of the pocketwatch
Still stares like an inky splotch
Mocks the poet and mocks his pen,
Coerces his will within,
Yet to his odd sorrow, he is freed
Unlike my prison of lustful greed!";
As they drift away into, tugged by the heart of dismay.