The Crimson Clock
A piece of clay, not here to stay,
within an hourglass of blood,
blossoms like a bud.
This glass shall soon pass,
covered in red
it bled a droplet of time.
The heart shall soon depart;
each beat is a retreat
that could be defeat.
The glass grows thin,
the silence begins.
No hand can delay
the red tide’s decay.
A crimson toll
for the fragile soul.
When the last drop falls,
the darkness calls.