CLOCK WORK

Like a clock work toy counting down to zero,

Is the life of this little boy.

All unbalanced steps, he does take, leads him on to a different world.

Lies they make the path he treads.

For each step forward masks regret.

A hand he raises, to touch the tears, of the little girl he met.

Stars they shine on the fate of man.

As fire and steel turn beauty black.

Another run at the prize, he does make, as the laws of man try to hold him back.

Death approaches with every step.

Each corner leads to another grave.

Upon his lips, a prayer is poised, fists clenched to heaven, he imparts his rage.

A message carried, by the bird of dawn.

On a thermal created by burning flesh.

To the one God, he tried to believe in, as war and famine rage around the blessed.

Alone among the broken hearts.

His life, it starts to unwind.

Beauty there, in mouth and breast, what he seeks he shall not find.

Side to side his conscious swings.

As virtue’s truth melts his passion.

Tenderly cradled, in wearied arms, his little girl, pale and ashen.

Sorrow beats within his breast.

With such force to split his heart.

A kiss he places, on her mouth, raising a curse to tear the dawn apart.

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