The clockmaker was once more at his bench

His eyes were drained of life

Fixed yet another ticking machine

His mind unraveled in the monotony 

For in his youth, he still felt eons pass

He gazed upon his purgatory of metal and wood

The wretched amalgamations of brass would outlast him

Yet even the clocks will become dysfunctional in time

As well as people’s memories of him

All shall perish

What does it matter a decade, a year or a century

When all that is and was ever meant to be

Will falter, fail and fleetingly live

Even the monstrous creations his life was dedicated to

His executioners chimed mercilessly as he stood in vigor

The gears may lose teeth and the weights will drop

Yet what they represent will never stop

The universe cares not of a lowly clockmaker

The cosmos shall vacuously continue

The purpose as futile as any he may conjure

The ticking sounded off louder than the man’s heart

His blood boiled in rage

In his futile and blink-length existence

He was fueled by ravenous hatred

The ticking and chiming drove him lunatic

He armed himself against the gallows of inevitability

With the same tools that lead to the vile creations

Until his eyes met his visage in the glass of the clocks

Lowering his arms, he knew his passionate destruction would fix not

Defeatedly, he sat down his tools and fell onto his throne of isolation

The clocks still ticked and there wasn’t sudden meaning

But destroying the world wouldn’t bring any gleaming

To that inky abyss of space in which we reside

Gathering himself

Once more at his bench