The Death Clock Poem

The Death Clock 3/28/2012

Tick tock goes the clock
Ticking downwards in a curve
A bloody countdown to who knows what
But no surprise at all.

Day after day
And night after night
The plants grow and thicken
The fruits of the time
Fresh, green and plump.

Ripe for the picking
And hanging low enough to touch
Dripping with juice
Thick, red and rich.

You can smell it in the air
And you can feel it in your bones
That the reaper is coming
To gather
What is sown.

We have nurtured the seeds
With cowardice and retreat
And we have watched it watered
With the blood of the good.

Blamed, denied
And held up for abuse
For the little gods of convenience
Beaten and crucified.

Every man has a motive
And every action a reason
One being the goal
And the other a plan.

It is wise
To use your eyes
And search for the truth
But not just the convenient
Or the popular.

Vanity is the worst
When it works on the weak
Evolving into narcissism
And poisonous pride.

The shallow graves of many
Have become fertilizer
Feeding the fruit of hell
Full and rich
Heavy and ripe.

What we say
And what we do
Are both important
But silence is the voice of complicity
Just as deadly
As poison.

Point by point
And bullet by bullet
A rising tide of death
Shall swallow itself.

The end shall justify the means
Until the end burns away
Washing away all that was
Fresh, clean and new.