A Clockwork's Change

Its metal arms wear; and melt and droop,

By barren bones on trees thereby to stoop,

To the lowly multitude, thence dissipate,

O' sands o' time, in interstices wait.

Whose banal ticks trail the program's repeat,

As wires tense whence vital currents beat,

Deranged to the squeals of never-ending bits,

Its cogs crack loose in fresh anxious fits.

Who keep count whilst the elevator oscillates,

'Tween worlds, unseen, unsought it mediates,

Till berserk to run stray endless elsewhere;

The climbers choke in transit's ensnare.

Who'd followed wise men to sacred halls,

Where Poetry tries, and fails to enthrall,

"Delayer of Truth!", 'tis guilty of crime!

Thy metaphors transpire midst ruins of rhyme...

Who conspire as the streets separate,

To pensive poles where lovers hesitate,

'Gainst serpentine wheels whose eternal trails,

And vulgar horns hide their lovelorn wails.

I search the clock for signs of nearby dawn,

Yet all remained, nay not as long had by gone;

To starless abyss we stared that took to no time,

And rose to morning's kiss, on thirteenth chime.