A Psychoanalysis of the End of the World, part 2

2. It(')s time

And ‘til the day he dies
he proclaims antipathy at the world
in its darkest hour,
according to him.
His eyes were closed,
his world was coming to a close.
At his bed, the smell of
sulphur,
iron,
sea salt,
and pigment, pigment like pink fuzz,
but he seemed to like it, smiling
gracefully,
at the world’s darkest hour.
The clock, denoting his time,
the only occasion he ever really
paid attention to that chime;
it was always so necessary,
a nuisance before.
This dusty old grandfather clock passed down
from generation to generation
of darkest hours
chiming at those times,
every time,
ceaselessly until the fuzz whitens
and withers away.
Yellows,
like petals of un-watered flowers
or scrunched up straw wrappers,
wetted by unmannered children at the dinner table
with dirt under their finger nails,
making them look like thin white
worms slimy and slithering,
born of imagining them emerging from the Earth.