There, like clockwork it betrays its secrets,
Ever-whispering quietly in a language you don't know.
A scratching softly from the other room,
As a quill on paper bleeds secrets.
But from outside the house is impenetrable;
You look through all the walls and windows for a room...
Likewise the human heart is filled of quiet thoughts,
But for all our trying to hear them, it is impenetrable.
So when we sit in the quiet ticking,
We can but try to listen to our silent thoughts.
But ever the ticking grows, a rhythm for your heart to beat,
A heart that's ticking, tocking, ticking...
Despite all the secrets that you know,
It's those you don't that make your soul beat.
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