Makers Upon Makers

On swings the pendulum after countless ticks and tocks Singing the glorious requiem for its dying brethren clocks It taps the world with waning tempo to preach evanescence Yet its past and streaming photons mark a boundless presence An image between ticks engraves where dust is in the wind Recording life's ebb, whether birth of son or loss of friend Rarely does their maker know the many ticks or tocks he's started Especially not those loathesome tocks that sent away departed What of our designer who willed us many ticks ago Might he know the meager wisps of the souls he set aglow? How should the righteous consume for production of one's self To make their mass of matter get placed higher on lord's shelf? Maybe life isn't just some programmed stellar robot And infinite skies get dotted with cosmic rounds of buckshot Then we make our own demise or shining place of glory And the only truth that reality sets is our untold story It makes morals a reprimand of actions that hurt the whole And spoon-fed to children with threats of their eternal soul Maybe a priest is another maker, sated by ancestral tricks Just as the lonely man who fills his silent halls with ticks