Grandfather Clock

The grandfather clock looms,
a sagging sentinel, its gut silent-
pendulum slack like a coward’s jaw.
My father, hands of weathered-wood,
wound it once, a half-hearted ritual,
then let it choke on stillness.
Its face, split like a serpent’s sigh,
points to ten past nowhere –
time he never gave me.  
I stalk its bulk,
a scavenger gnawing at echoes,
the wood’s twisted scars mocking –
his presence, a shadow too thin to cast.
Its voice, once a brazen gnash,
faded under his shrug,
leaving me to wrestle
the quiet he draped like a shroud.  
I’d split it wide,
dig for the hours he hoarded –
not for me, but for his own muted retreat.
Those lost seconds, I’d jam in my throat,
let them cut me raw,
while the clock, his spineless heir,
glares blind,
reigning over nothing but my unspent rage.
I linger, grip slack,
not cracking it open –
not spilling its rust and cogs,
not freeing the coiled wraith within,
a genie of powder and emptied ticks,
granting no wishes, only visions –
adrift in his silhouette.
After all,
he didn’t have to die to leave.
He was never there.
I let it linger,
a mute monolith,
stealing it’s stillness as my own resolve.