The Tick

The fickle leaves abandon the branch

The Brown, the Yellow, and the Red.

The blood pours down the bark

With the treachery and the fear.

The autumn nights; the everlasting gloom.

The people who drove the darkness in.

The ceiling’s overbearing gaze

With the eyes that burn with the light.

The waiting under the moonlit sky.

The dust and the chill in the breeze.

The cold metal brain that runs the world

With no care for the lives under it’s control.

The daily routine and the callous regret.

The delusion, the delay, the everlasting doom.

The stars we can’t touch and the flower seed fairies.

With no magic from the lifeless dead.

The wooden chair; the creak in my back.

The warning for the future of pain.

The colour that runs from the skin

With the age of the irreversible clock.

The pang of the broken heart.

The selfish desire for the end.

The ecstasy and the knife sliding in

Without the hesitation or the doubt.