Started counting the chime of a rustic grandfather clock
It's never too late, got more hours to buy
Sun's still on its peak, must enjoy mid-day's hypnotic light
A patina's effect of success must obscure
The failures built by swathe of ignorance

Keep on counting hours...
nine, ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, noon time...
What has been done? What are the roads taken so far?
What's filled the stomach? Did new tricks help?

Lofty souls trample the dull and meek
Singular I's, me's, and mine's
Gorging at noontime high while
siesta rolls the eyes in boredom and disgust

In time, the orphaned toll of chimes will resound
At three o'clock, "What was learned?"
At four o'clock, "What was shared?"
At five o'clock, What made you?"
At six, "Who exactly are you?"

Forbearing afternoon sun will soon shy away
A chill of the still night's breeze will shroud
and descend with a dreadfulness of loneliness...
creeping, slithering, haunting

The soul is now tired, the courage has dissipated
cramping legs has finally surrendered to the cradling of a
plush memory-foam mattress. "What exactly have one become?"
"What make-up was created to deserve a sound sleep?"

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