The Clock
When today's children get old
Will they want to change
Their clock’s battery
Surely they won't remember
Clocks that used to be wound
My mother collected clocks
Each with their winding key
It's how I feel
Get my key to the slot
Give it a turn or two
I'm winding down
There's dust on my head
Worn paint on my hands
When fingers updated my time
Spinning around minutes or
Hours
It seems no one will reset
My hands on this old clockface
My time begins to stop
Millenia will pass
I'll be right twice a day
If there will still be days
Yet my face could be blank
Just like those new watches
Who's battery discharged
My time seems near
Truth is no longer
On the face of clocks
There are no faces
We agree upon
Barry G. Wick
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