Clockwork. A poem.

Causal expectations
and experience will say
that I will just gain nothing
from this long and tedious day.

My movement winding down,
corroded, insecure,
scattered springs, nuts and bolts
and thoughts abound, unsure.

Who’s to say my automation
is better than before?
Let cogs and gears grind on and on
as I cogitate some more.

I was once wound so tightly
that I thought I’d never slow,
but now my springs are stretched and worn,
so tired and overblown.

Tick tock, cries the clock,
round and round it goes,
this clockwork man keeps winding down,
all the way to


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