Have fun.

The firm feeling of a knife to sharp.
Slicing it across my arm.
Like strumming a harp.
But a lot more harm.

The feeling of a knife in my hand.
The blade talking to the clock.
Time blowing in the wind like sand.
There is nothing to block.

Tick tock goes the clock.
Tock goes the tick.
A tick tock tick for every block.
A tick tock tick tock that it will stick.

The sound of a knife on her chest.
Her voice frozen in time.
Time with the fear of rest.
As the clock will chime.

A taste of a knife on a neck so slick.
Lightly slicing her skin.
Like a thorn that the skin will prick.
As not part of my kin.

Time, almost out.
With a clock counting down, no?
She wants to shout.
She doesn't want the hourglass to go.

The smell of my rust covered hand.
Rust and tears of the dead.
In the hourglass, no more sand.
The deadline has been read.

A ping of a secret joy.
A lust if you will.
Her bloody ribs, a toy.
As she is one with time so still.

A tick of a clock above a door.
A tick of a knife placed on a table.
A tick of blood hitting the floor.
A tick of my mind, chillingly stable.

A tick in my head for every feeling.
Two ticks for every sound or taste.
Three ticks for a smell so appealing.
Six ticks for the senses that I never waste.