The Clock Tower
The clockwork has rusted
Into a stiff modern art statue,
Painted by nature, loathed by the
Masses, and loved by the few.
The gears scream in a failed revival;
The hands quiver, stuck on four and nine.
The Roman numerals no longer
Glister in the night; the bell tolls not.
The sun is frozen in the evening sky;
The moon is lost below the horizon.
The clouds do not change form,
And the snowflakes have stopped their descent.
Humanity carries out its errands,
Unbeknownst to cosmic complications
And the wars that are suddenly infinite:
For the day has now refused to end
And ignorant minds are trapped
In a broken time continuum.
Rages are unconquerable.
Lives are unbreakable,
And some are forever gone.
The birds migrate over impeccably
Calm waters, searching for lands
That are just ahead, but never appear.
Likewise, the sailors are eluded
By the lands, and, sadly, by the fishes.
Yet how can they know of their troubles?
How can they know of something more?
That they are perpetually enclosed?
Where is the oil to ease the metallic pains
Of the beautiful, gothic clock tower?
How will she breathe once more?
How will she sing to the cities?
The bells shall toll no more.
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