We run on gears that click and turn,
The inner mechanisms of the soul.
The tick tick tick of our brains,
That makes you sit and wonder... like a reed whistling in the wind.
Unintentional prophecies that we are destined to break,
As all clocks do.
They run for a simple purpose and can always be repaired.
Contradictory in statement and example.
For humans are only born in clockwork to then grow,
Into ripe organic creatures,
A new purpose in their minds.
A new example for society to gaze upon.
See how when wound up they walk?
See how when need be, they talk?
See them fall apart...
The tick tick whir of our brains.
The ice cold touch of our clicking hearts.
The rusted silence of death.
All in due time.
We, alone in atmosphere, so suddenly deepened by the chill of death,
So, as if we were truly singular in melody, we open our inner mechanisms,
And to the click click click of our hearts,
We rearrange.
