The Ticking Clock Poem, by Anna Rojo, at My poetic side

What a sharpening throat the raven must have,
to turn every word into a perfect attack.

Lonely, dazed and betrayed,
trying to trick my body into some sleep I’m never gonna get.

The birds quicken its pace,
being the only ones my heart seems to care.

I’m never gonna leave this land, full of chasing frogs and jealous hopes,
wishing I never get to hear the ticking clock.

Something the clock has compels the deer to stay,
as if staying would make cleaner the ocean, or even safer promises.

“None of this is fake nor real” says the witch,
“Just dashing enough to blind those who can actually see.”

Tick tack, the whisper in the woods is gone.

Trees hold me around the waist, and I see the kid who thinks to know how to fly,

unsure about whether he is right, I utter “Fly! The ticking clock.”