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To David-Matthew Barnes's previous piece

Clockwork

Like clockwork,
He pulls at your time.
Steals your hours like a whore.
Desecrates your minutes and misery,
And violates you every violent second.
You brush past the hands of defeat, seeking the sweet
Honey, he's a good man - better not let that one get away!
Allow the daze and the weak and the months of Cronus
To lick the round faces of the faces of your happily married tears.
As you sit alone, staring at midnight, his cold dinner, empty chair,
The timer ticks in your Hell kitchen and gas fumed skull.
You strike the twenty-seven year old match and within seconds,
Explode into a million pieces.