This is the third draft at this poem. I THINK it is complete now.

Please tell me your views on it.

Echoes

Tick echoes after tock,
From the faithful clock.
The old timer
In the dusty room.

He watches ticks turn into years
Hears chimes echo
In deaf overgrown ears.

Threadbare clothes of yesteryears,
Bald at the elbows and knees.
Cobweb threads
Barely make ends meet.

Faded photos of childrens’ children hide
Behind grease and nicotine.
Seeking their smiles with
Watery glass covered eyes.

Remembering forgotten memories
Of unforgotten faces.

Tracing with yellowed finger,
A brown faced reminder
Of a life that was
And one that is
Outside.

Gnarled knuckles weakly clutch,
Medals earned
That mean not much to outside.

Found in silent echoes of memories.
Through smoky uric air
Brown smiles witness
His last tock.

Tick echoes after tock,
From the dusty clock
In the silent room.

I enjoyed this one Darren. A mixture of 'showing' and 'telling'.