Without A Trace? Poem by C H Sund

Grandfather, the clock, lone sentinel,
stands in hallway; has always stood there.
Never sleeping, rhythmically calling
keeping time, measured time, tolling.

11 bells chime, stately, elegantly, slowly
as if announcing the midnight hour nears.
I wonder… did my grandfather hear that sound,
the pending doom, the finality coming chime?

Did my father also hear… hear that sound?
For I hear it now, I hear it now and I shudder.
Finality… chiming, calling, coming
it’s calling me, chiming its rhythmic knell.

I now feel this rush, this rush to complete.
To finish ends, to wrap with a bow.
To put a stamp on, and send… send somewhere.
So when I leave, it will be… with a trace.

Does the fear of anonymity drive us on
in our final hour, to leave something?
Or are we covering for all our failures?
Trying to do the right thing at the right time,

finally?