The clock on the wall a faint

The clock on the wall, a faint,

wood-chipped thing. Its second hand

crawls, a mechanical wing.

Not smooth, but a twitch, a nervous,

low hitch before its complete.

Each fractional beat, so close

I almost hear it strain. And time,

it just goes, or is going, I guess.

The deadline just grows, a cold,

quiet stress. The minute hand shakes

before it takes hold, and everything breaks

from being too old. The dust on its face,

a fine, grey skin, covers the race

I’m losing. The paint on the frame,

flaking slow, a silent, ugly blame.