“Broken,” barks the cog in the clock
that neither ticks nor tocks,
for a dreadful lock has taken hold.
“Cold,” pleads the face,
joints rusted, frozen in place.
“Why,” ponders the pendulum
which marches to a futile beat,
swayed by the whispers of entropy.
A clock with no tick-tock
is naught but a box of springs.
“Please, listen,” begs the hand
that speaks of times forgotten,
and of gods from machines.
“What must be will be,”
decrees the ruler of everything.
Tyler DeWriter 