The Ticking Clock

you stand in the wooded hills of the volunteer state's second grand division

on a short respite from the daily grind

that isn't technically yours.

you weasel your way into the mix anyway.

you are surrounded by friends, new, old, in-between,

some casual, some close, others closest.

so much good, clean fun is had,

and great conversations flow in abundance.

the self machine, with all its cogs and gears and wires

begins to whir, beep, and jingle

as it calculates the remaining time you have with these people.

sirens wail and crimson warning lights flash violently

as the countdown appears on the screen.

every second that disappears is a deafening pound of a timpani.

your heart reaches out in all directions with tentacled arms in a desperate attempt

to draw these people and this place nearer and dearer.

the thought of it all ending so soon is simply indigestible.

it sits like a stone in your stomach.

the manufacturer of all of this swoops in to pacify the chaos.

he reminds you that you are not consigned to a lonely, vagabond existence,

and that there will be more seasons. new people, new places, new seeds to be sown.

the clock continues to tick,

tick,

tick,

tick,

but slowly,

with each passing tick,

you are able to bear it more and more.