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clocks spread sounds of ticking across the hall,
as midnight turns around the chimes heard through the wall,
dozing back to a dream which enters the ticking to merge,
the explosive force pulses with an overwhelming surge,
a spark ignites the bed engulfed in flames and smoke,
sitting up from the dream the eyes then awoke,
nothing but the ticking clock on the other side still annoys,
like the constant rattle of a game or loud toys,
swiping the bedsheets across in a rage which folds,
the floor wooden but keeps places of deepest colds,
turning the door handle which makes a grinding squeak,
the grip gets tighter as if going to strong from weak,
this door cannot open with a unbreakable lock,
pounding on the door to switch off that fucking clock,
someone arrives too blurry to see,
watching him and telling him he will not be set free.