Madness Mimicking
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I hear a ticking, a clicking, mimicking.
It rings and sticks,
like strings and tricks,
tying the dying with a quick kick, tipping.
Click. Click-click. Click.
I feel a kicking, a nicking, mimicking.
It sings and licks,
like kings and pricks,
trying the lying with a quick stick, flipping.
It's in the blood.
It's in the mud.
It's in the skin, the flesh, the crud.
It's in the head.
It's in the dead.
It's in the echoes the dead have said.
The walls whisper it,
the floors scream it,
the soil breathes it,
the air dreams it.
The trees grow it,
the water flows it,
the father loathes it,
the daughter knows it.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I hear a ticking, a clicking, mimicking.
Like a gun cocking
or a heart stopping,
like a pulse throbbing,
or a breath robbing;
Like a clock knocking,
or the earth rocking,
like the wings stocking,
it comes ticking, and clicking, madness mimicking.
9.24.2013
YOU ARE READING
RIP
PoetryTwisted. Fearful. Beating. Harmony: Dark imagery of an ex-psychopath written in poetry. Rest in Peace, my little straight jacket. Enjoy the reading, my friends!
