bloody attention span

but in the end, it was all for naught.

a bloodstain dripping off the clock

plinking between the floorboards

upon every tick and tock is just as

empty as the last time they fought.

screams of accusation leave many a

heart wrung out in cold weather.

something about a soul weighing

lighter than a feather

but heavier than the wrongs that

stained his sallow, cracking lips. stained

like tea over clay.

seeping brown dregs deep into cracks we've

seen, but decided to look away

even though we can smell the decay

how long until the clock is cleaned,

would you say?

an hour,

a minute,

a day?

how long until the blood is washed

from its perennial face?

and how long until we forget

there was ever a murder that took place?