The clocks are not in sync, they're counting double minutes. It's getting hard to think, she looks on with a grimace.
The clocks are out of time, each tick rings out across the room. She is not sublime, and this chair feels like a tomb.
The clocks are off-beat, at least they break the silence. The ticks are like a fleet, an attack of pure violence.
The hearts beat off time, the clocks don't rhyme.
"I promise, miss, I'm feeling fine."
But the clocks will never get in line.


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