Around the Clock

The man comes in for a ride each and every Sunday night. Right on the clock. Waits the man a thousand lonely seconds. Tick-tock of the clock. Second by second they lock the time down to the point that the man cannot close. He’s not the one to think of the time passed. He thinks of the time converted for what he was tasked with. Task grand by the high power given ‘Propagate!’ Order heard. Order to be fulfilled. The thousands of seconds ticked. Time is up. The man sits up with a breath last swallows a drink. In task meticulous, in colour wondrous, in effect deathly. The time had stopped ticking for the man and the clock. As the clock hands run around and the Sunday comes again the door opens, the sole chair creaks and the man sits down. Each and every Sunday it is the same.