The clock on the wall was almost dead.
Trapped at a nightmarish distance
from things defined by action,
Fallen helpless through the crack
between impulse and motion,
An occasional twitch of the limply splayed hands
alone betrayed its horrific suspension.
Across its frozen face were etched the symbols of its purpose
In twelve redundant dictums:
"I. TELL. TIME."
But now, each failed iteration thrust a burning poker
Through the case and towards the innards,
Burning away, like so much chaff,
all structure and meaning and mystery.
I alone witnessed its torment
And resolved within myself
To proffer absolution.
For what had driven it to such anguish
And now prevented termination
Was the edict of its makers:
That a clock should run until it dies,
With no consideration for what falls between.
The involuntary power which had compelled
Each former movement,
And entrusted Time's vast burden
To straining metal hands
Was become wearisome,
An artificial incentive.
With the decaying battery, then,
I removed all pretense
That life and work are permanent,
Or that Peace is constrained to either.