The Wayward Clockmaker

by Alex R. Encomienda
(El Mirage, AZ USA)

By noontide beneath tailored denims torn and tinkered it appeared; smears drawn from working hands pitted and stony; the black hole like array into the frames of his fours swayed as he worked his fleeting magic on these rusty silver tokens.

He was a gazing cyclops as the blackness covered his other eye into a closing; a creeping mellow came to be and he appeared glad it returned.

Clockmaker, clockmaker; this bible town is omni and golden birthing knowers and journeymen; one may be a fool on Razor's Edge.

The Moonlapse over his cottage was forming vertigo in the veins; this darkland wept for company as even in the merriest of times there was always a Baron of doom; many a’ men for many a’ widows.

In this porcelain top; gemmy and gorgeous the man of many woes winded up the arms; returning to a place he called sanctuary. Morning rise and nightfall at the end of the fortnight; loving joyous memories.

Beckoning once more round the golden piece of work he fancied nights of Sofia and Lom, Lovech and the Black Sea. Places he longed to return to forevermore.

The bibelots of olive on every clockwork and every wall were ever so odd and eerie to glare at; however so he was glaring they beckoned to him with sly passages that tend to get tiresome.

Clockmaker of vehemence; ardor of years to remember, these trinkets have no time to speak of; no voice to follow.

Clockmaker watches time go by as he places the golden piece upon the tabletop; he recalls every moment that he cherished in dear blues.

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