She arrives in a whisper.
The hands of our time all point in different directions, the steady tick-tock of our life. For some it’s early, for others, the clock approaches midnight, and those of the unfortunate—the hands of their time spun forward… ticking… ticking… ticking… More powerful than lightning, always ready to strike, without warning, or with poison.
She has the power to break the bond between man and wife. Uncompassionate and gutless are her ways. She will steal the future from the youth and strangle the past from the wise.
Never does she sleep. She waits and watches, patient like love, but never kind. She can be slow, and sometimes that’s worse.
Her sinister, dark hand comes down upon the earth; a cold claw that takes away those whose time is up.
She is the draught of our fountain.
Like the hidden things that crawl into the earth, she brings down her hammer in secret, wielding no mercy.
From the ground on which we were born, she is the one who will grind us into dust and return us to the earth. She is the shadow that covers our light, the eclipse of our sun.
She ends the gift, returning us to darkness.
She is the unwanted promise, which is our broken clock.
She leaves with a shout
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