Whenever the clock strikes three
It reminds me of the man that I am not
Of the world I have not
Yet known, or never will.

It reminds me of the dream
That I have had since I was six
And as the clock strikes more
The fear makes home, settles still

Was it the cheer of the bells
Or illusion of being sleuth of luck
The way the walls close in
The way I drown with air galore

I dread the wicked imbroglio
As all the lies have made it so
"Mea culpa now let it go!"
I cry as the clock strikes four

If only I knew of the ruse
When I could not even choose
If I should pet the bird on my side
Or kill the one on windowsill

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