As I sit here listening to the clock, ticking away the seconds of my life,
Bringing me closer, and closer to the inevitable.
The rest of the world is asleep.
The alarm has gone of, but they sleep on.
Oblivious to the ticking; sleeping, snoring.
They won’t wake up until the bus of life has passed on,
Leaving them behind.
They sleep away, dreaming, dreaming,
Unaware of the clock.
The alarm won’t go off again for another twelve hours.
How many seconds in twelve hours?
Life ticks on and on, towards the inevitable.
Day turns into darkness,
Life turns into death.
Am I the only one truly awake?
Why do they not awake and hear?
Have they no ears to hear the alarm?
Are their eyes just closed, or have they no eyes to see?
Or are they already dead?
They don’t stir: locked in their slumbers, somewhere between awake and asleep, no where,
Even while they walk about; laughing, talking.
Are they alive, or are they dead?
What is death?
Is it a state where nothing happens from the shoulders up?
Does it mean brain-dead or completely dead?
Perhaps it means non-functional?
What does it really mean?
Does it mean something different to each individual?
The clock is ticking for all – not just for me.
Perhaps it is me that's dead, and I am just dreaming that I am alive,
Apart from all others – alone in a kind of darkness,
Listening to some sound that's like a clock,
Locked in death's never-never land,
Where I sleep and dream.
Perhaps I can wake up and it will all be different?
Perhaps the world is safe after all, and it’s just my nightmare.
Perhaps the world of men is really in trouble?
Perhaps it is just believed, and isn’t real?
Perhaps, because it is believed that all is well, that it is.
Perhaps there is no reality?
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
Perhaps the clock isn't ticking.
Men seem to ignore reality, and choose a dream that takes them beyond reality.
It's comfortable. It makes you feel secure.
Deny what you see. Deny the clock; it will go away.
They cry, ‘Believe!' They believe whatever seems nice, comforting, or just profitable to them.
They don’t hear; they don’t see; they don't even feel.
They are all asleep, so deeply asleep, and the alarm has gone off.
The clock spring has run down,
And it won’t ring again in twelve hours.
It will never ring again if they don’t wake up.
And if they don't and I am not dreaming, then we will all sleep, forever.
It's the inevitable. Because of the inevitable, because no one heard the alarm,
No one woke up. No one saw reality.
No one heard anything that didn’t suit them.
And so no one will wake up in time. They don’t want to.
The busses and all the trains stand still.
No one heard the alarm. No one even heard the ticking of that clock.
No one takes notice of the obvious, the inevitable.
Yet it creeps on, slowly, quietly, incessantly.
Tick, tick, tick,¦,¦
R.G.Crosbie.
©10/9/2003 – 2011