The Night Clocks

Every night,
the clocks tick relentlessly,
past twelve and one
and two and three,

as I lie still
in the merciless night
with my churning mind
and repentant sight.

Each moment of a tired life
is painted on the walls of thought
in which I pace and prowl and pick
like the circling knives, on which I'm caught,

in the hateful grasp of "should have," "would have,"
"if only I could try again,"
stabbing, slashing, ceaselessly scraping
like the spinning clocks, without an end.

Their daggered hands drag me up and down,
and yank me apart and crush me small,
while I toss and turn and strive desperately
for sleep, which rarely comes at all.

I am plagued by ticking, tocking truth
which screams and screeches in the night,
twirling, twisting my cringing heart
and echoing still come morning light.