The only end that cares to be is time,
An apparition in a tower tall,
Just one command and all the sabers fall,
The second hand will stab at heart's last chime.
The reaper's cloak is spattered with the grime
Of life, and soul, and all the worldly gall
That moves the ones with grudge consuming all,
Who laugh and think they've entered the sublime.
The dead don't dare acknowledge common truth
That haunt is measured by the day and hour
Obsessed with all the things they hated most.
The spooks with most ambition are the youth,
The truly evil tend to burn and sour,
But clocks don't fear the living or the ghost.