The Clock's Soft Malice

The chipped wood face tilts under cracked glass—

pendulum swinging, a slow swing, unsure.

Last night it struck twelve, again, and again,

dozens of sharp knells slicing the dark,

wakeful, relentless.

I lay tangled in sheets that smelled of cold sweat,

counting the uneven beats, the jealous tick-tock

that robbed the silence like a thief.

Each chime a stubbed toe,

a bruise on the quiet I chase with half-closed eyes.

The clock doesn't care.

It just ticks.