The Clocks

They forget that we mortals are tied to the clocks

Lashed to the turning of gears and old cogs

While their youth remains endless and death a rare myth

Our years roll by and so grows life’s rift.

 

Her beauty entranced him when the gardens were young

And the rose bushes held buds still to be sprung

But restlessness grows in the white of new wings

When the promise of flight in the wind whispers and sings.

 

She’ll forget that mortals are tied to the clocks

Lashed to the turning of gears and old cogs

And the gardens will bloom in the promise of spring

But mortal hands will stop when the final chime rings.

 

So she’ll lie across steps where their feet once fell

And the memories of smiles can still yet be held

For his bones have been lost to the passing of time

To mix with the soil from where the ivy does climb.

(inspired by ironshod’s fantastic piece ‘Sweet Sorrow’)

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