Crypt-Tock

A steeple stands against the gray, A monument to lost decay. Beneath its bones the silence mocks, Except the pulse of a ticking clock. Marble saints stare down in spite, As pews sit cold beneath the stained light. Each stroke below, a measured toll, The sound that feeds sleepless souls... No prayer can drown that steady sound, No faith can calm what’s underground. Crypt-Tock, hear the pendulum swing, Counting sins the daylight brings. Every tick a truth denied, Every tock, a soul that lied. Stone walls weep in candle haze, The floor remembers better days. Names erased, yet whispers stay, As coffin lids begin to sway. The pendulum sways with words engraved, “Time won’t save what faith enslaved.” Each swing a curse, each arc a vow, The crypt keeps score, and it starts now. Crypt-Tock, the midnight chime, Marks the fall of borrowed time. Every tick, the pulse of sin, Every tock, the dark within... Locked away, yet always near, The faithful tremble, but never hear. Beneath their feet, the clock persists, Judging all who still exist. The church stands still, the candles weep, The faithful pray while others sleep. The pendulum halts, the silence thick, And someone whispers… another tick.