tick tock

etched ethereally on her olive skin
like mummified memories of masochism
dancing dubiously on the dormant canvas
but certainty itself offers no consolation
as it tips the scale too far for retrieval
there is upset in the balance.
return to a state of negotiation
this flimsy underpinning
that threatens to crumble
and destroy any ambition for tranquility
it's unpredictable, yet irresistibly tempting
to a point of such endearment
that it frightens me so
but in the same breath
thrills my weary heart
there is comfort in calamity.
the necessity of preservation
is unquestionably the most innate
yet just the same
undeniably the most fruitless endeavor
ever attempted.
the hands of time
will clench with unrelenting force
the victor is clear
the scales are tipped
the balance, upset
and just like those before us
our existentialism threatened
things fall apart
time is unforgiving
as the hands of the clock
sweep hauntingly
reminding you with each tick
each tock
tick tock