Tick. Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick

Tock.



There be the sound of the eternal clock.

The cry of the reaper with his scythe,

preparing to end your short, sad life.

For the west wind blows onward,

oh how it does grasp at your soul.

And old grim is waiting to impose his control.

With those crocked hands he pulls you,

straight into his arms.

So quickly he takes you, you're without much alarm.

And the moonlight above you,

glistens translucent and clear

as if it try to tell you have nothing to fear.

But the moon is a liar,

such a creature of the dark.

For your heart is a sinner, so evil and stark.

And above you a chorus,

how the angels of glory do yell,

screaming so loudly they condemn you to hell.

The torture of the fire,

first it burns through your flesh,

only to then eat your spirit, unkept and fresh.

Beelzebub, the destroyer, he gives you a grin.

Oh how pleased he is with you,

just look at your sin.

Your reward for your evil,

be is so grand and so great,

is the inferno of brimstone for which you await.

A baptism of suffering,

the lamentations fill your ears,

and the liquid so hot it does boil your tears.

And from your prison of pain,

you do hear only one sound.

Be it the ticking and tocking of the next awaiting round.