The clocks Cry havoc. Midnight screams the hour. Blow horns Beat pans, run folly-blind. Bellow. Screech. And be like bedlam Ricocheting through the halls And out the door Where there's a path somewhere to find. 'Should auld acquaintance be forgot And never come to mind . . . ' The path is there, the waymarks stare, The writing in the sky is fair, But left unsigned.
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