A ticking sound with every beat
A mechanism so finely tuned
With gears and springs, oh so neat
It's never missed a single moon
A heart of gold, a heart of steel
It beats with rhythm, steady pace
No need for love, no need to feel
It's clockwork, nothing more, no trace
It chimes the hours, every one
It winds itself, no hand in play
It never stops, no setting sun
A heart that works, night and day
A symbol of the man it serves
No room for love, no room for pain
No hopes, no dreams, just what it preserves
An existence, just not humane
A ticking clock, a heart in chain
A life of routine, a life in vain
The clockwork heart, forever unchained.
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Business management and writers in Poets and other communities.
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.