Rondeau of Lonely Clockwork
The swirling hands, mocking brevity
Pointing out numbers of darkened ebony
My dreams crash against it's changing face
Cruel invention, watching life run in place
- Pushing on toward the end of me -
Gears eat the minutes with metal teeth
Seconds stomping circles with dreadful feet
As my dying hope lays in wait --
Damn, damn those swirling hands
Draining the days from petaled trees
My heart's dried out and never bleeds
Grasping my soul to save it's grace
But alas, even it escapes --
Damn, damn those swirling hands