Death Of A Clock

The Final Time
The only needle of the clock at the wall
Moved slowly like the pendulum swings
Making a sorrowful face
As if fighting a lone battle
in a race against time
There were no numbers to cheer things up
and no glass mask
covering its dust filled face
It was slow and painful
a mourning, tick tocking heartbeat
knowing the imminent
& yet waiting
for that last tick
before the fall.

Last Rites
I picked the pieces in the morning
and hurried them in a bag
To be thrown down the trash chute
The mortuary of the needless and neglected.