Clockmaker's Guild Poem by Erik Wilson

Clockmaker's Guild



A shop built upon wise earnest bricks.
Drifts of romantic pianos cause a snowy, chilled draft of beware! bewitched past.
Opening the grandfatherly door to a paternal ding—
Of brass bells-

Turtle-shell green eyes welcome the eagerness of my curiosity.
The hands influence and show me the revealing mechanisms and gizmos of crews and tiny tools.
I shed a robotic tear for this all-knowing hermit.

His drowsy beagle doggy sighs despondently by the discombobulated haunted mansion fireplace
The ol' Robin Watchmaker—
Architect of time turned counterclockwise for me-for alluring dying destiny
Turning his shoulder he said with a head—

With a gaping hole he dares bold- Spittle flies with provoking breathless red passion-
"You CANNOT leave this antique room! "
And so I never will.

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