The clock is striking on.
I’ve lain here from dusk till dawn
I’ve listened to each hour talk
Their same old tick and tock.
I’ve watched each number
While waiting for slumber.
By one, I just want to rest,
By two, I am slightly depressed,
When three strikes, I want to cry,
When four strikes, I do cry.
The clock is ticking on and on
Of what I shouldn’t hear until dawn
But I hear every single hour
And I get out of bed, with no power.
All I am able to do is watch the ceiling
And question every thought that makes my being
Perhaps I will drift off, perhaps I will not
There is still tomorrow night, if not.