Dying Clockmaker

A time, a time,
When life was mine,
I tinkered with it,
And lickedy-split,
My last second ticked.
Each moment, each second had turned me gray
A minute was too much to let slip away.

My time, approaching too fast,
Breathing the last,
of my sighs and cries
Taking in with dim eyes
The results of labor and all I've left to say,
Like wallpaper are all the clocks I have on display.

While still cutting deeper the lines of my face with a rhythmic ticking sound,
They called out for a neighboring youth from his bed to come swiftly down.
Their faces marked with blood, have now stopped spinning.
Their voices cry a new song in place of their ticking.
An automatic carelessly dropped on the floor,
Left with the holes in the walls and the broken door
The only marks I left, thanks to the lead punched inside,
Now simply serve to tell the time I died.