Faces, Hands, Gears

From a worn leather chair
In one half of the home
Heard an old, familiar sound
That only almost-silence knows
The ancient voice, a whisper
Never stops to catch her breath
And only loud enough to notice
When the rest go quiet

”Tick… tick… tick…”

Repeats herself until you hear
Then lest you should forget
Her face, her hands, her gears in turn
All perfectly in step
She dances to her rhythm
That ancient cadence will confess
Her wisdom scarcely audible
Amongst the busyness

”Tick… tick… tick…”

Will turn her face to look upon
The daughters and the sons of men
Walking down the endless halls
Never reaching where they end
She plays her broken record
But can’t draw an audience
Then forms the words in earnest still
A singular conviction

”Tick… tick… tick…”

Back against the hardened wall
She waves about her iron hands
Warning any eyes who look
For long enough to notice them
As if she has no other choice
She’ll clear that fragile, aging voice
Then drawing in one final breath
Plead again her same request

”Tick… tick… tick…”



© 2021 Colin Heinrich