Tonight my clock can only gasp,
And near my darkened temple flee;
The pistol's apple spins in clasp,
Below the trigger, bullet-free.
The moon is still and white with tears,
An aiming eye ... and so I dread
A Mystery great incused on fears,
An ovoid bullet in bright red.
Ah, hand that limits, hand of threat
Behind each door – ah, hand that breathes
In every clock, give way and let!
Above your frame's grey spider parts
Another Hand, of light made, wields
A bullet shaped like a blue heart.