Apocolypstick

Before I leave, there are a few loose ends to tie up.
This room is haunted with a spirit that ceased to permeate the nauseous reality of life.
I'll sell my clothes, our books, the pictures.
Time is ticking, we're not getting any younger.
The tink, tink of ice cubes in a glass,
Or tick, tick of that damned analog clock in the hall.
And if we acknowledged this as war,
Do I still believe the clack, clack of type will amend anything?
I usually forget that most of what I indicate is fiction.

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