eleveneleven

My clock is silent for the very first time
There are no bells, no whistles, to chimes.
My clock has no color for the very first time
There are no blues or reds or limes.

My soul is silent for the very last moment
The effect is small, yet potent.
My soul has no meaning for the very last moment
The words it whispers are cogent.

With ten minutes left, I stare down my list,
Which wish is the wish I find perfect?
With nine minutes left, I find a place to coexist,
Which wish is the wish I find to have the best effect?

With eight minutes left, I choose where I shall be,
The moment is here, could I be more ready?
With seven minutes left, I choose what I shall see,
The moment is here, could I be more unsteady?

With six minutes left, the colors are but a blur
and all is silent.
With five minutes left, the colors are but what they were
and all is violent.

With four minutes left, the white is black
and the black is white.
With three minutes left, the black is white
and the white is black.

With two minutes left, the cold feels warm
and the heart beats freeze.
With one minute left, the warm feels cold
and the heart beats pound.

My soul, it yells, for the very first moment
The effect is large, not potent.
My soul, it has much meaning, for the very first moment
The words it yells are not as cogent.

My clock is not silent for the very last time
There is nothing but bells and whistles and chimes.
My clock is full of color for the very last time
There is nothing but blues and reds and limes.

My clock ticked,
My soul wished,
My dreams came true.