Clock

A grumpy old man, whose
Right hand, like the longer
Arm of a Grand Father’s clock,
Came to a final full stop.

Just like, how a man, with Parkinson’s,
Was cured by one dose of the afterlife.
How a Grand Father’s clock ticked on to a moment,
When he was just like an old man with Parkinson’s,
Holding his arms, in front of him,
Wondering, how far two moments can go;
In the absence of the twitch.

The shortest distance on a clock, the tick
And the tock, while the old man’s palms,
Remembers, when the twitches used to
Resonate, to his once beating heart.

Lub-dub, the heart used to beat,
Until the reign of the spasm ended,
The abdication of the Parkinson’s twitch,
Which like the hands of, a Grand Father’s clock,
Stood asleep one moment,

The old clock’s hands, now rock hard,
Perhaps in clockwork rigor mortis

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