Silence ticks!

    Silence     ticks!

It is not     the  Golden  Silence

Emotionally   choking  you in

After  a  huge  rightful  windfall,

Or   a  reaction   following   a

Bonanza, or  worshipful   Silence

At the Altar.  At the  dead  end  of 

Night,  when your  key board is

Calmed  , when your PC

Shut down , the  ancient  grandfather

Clock  ticks ,opens  up a   new  realm

Of   eerie   embittering  Silence.

  That  special  speculates , speaks

Of  hoary past,  hitherto  conniving

against you.   It points  out  its 

weird   finger, that  something  

overflowing   is   yours,   that   blood

Red  should  have  been  your  Greenery,

Prurient,  emptied  your  coffers.

 Clock   ticks  every  second,

A  beat  at your  encapsulating   darkness

Hitherto   dominating  : Now   Silence

Dons  the  robe of  a  vigilant  guard

at the   reek   mound, beckoning  me

to  go  away,  I  wake  up  only

to    hear  the  overlapping   windy  doors,

milk  vendor  at the  lifts.