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
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