In the absolute stillness of a quiet room it sounds
Like the second hand of a clock
Pushing life throughout
Quick, quick, quick
Remarkable in its consistency
Unfaltering in its rhythm
Yet steadily running out of time
And then, nothing for a brief spell
Not enough to spark a panic
But enough to signify its certain collapse
To encourage acceptance to take another breath
Quick, quick, quick
Rushing through seconds, minutes and hours
Keeping to itself like a recluse
Until at last the strain becomes too much
And the parts that never considered it worth their notice
Are lost, drifting
Fighting even as they fade away
And the sound is no more.
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