Author's Note: Ok. Just so you know, this poem is absolutely rubbish. There is no regular rhythm to the lines and consequently there is little energy in it. I hate it. But, I like the concept behind it and therefore am going to post it anyway, because otherwise it'll just sit around doing nothing, whereas it could be out on the great wide web getting lots of pretty flames. You have been warned: poetry is not my forte! Oh, and for some reason I can't get the formatting to work properly, so I've had to resort to -st- to indicate where a new stanza is supposed to start, which doesn't look nearly so nice as the proper spacing, so I apologise and hope you forgive me. Anyway, tell me what you think.
My Lordship's Clock.
A clock tick, tick, ticking away,
Hurrying along to the end of the day,
Never sleeping.
-st-
A clock with the gears turning round and about,
With its people, the cogs, never tiring out.
But occasionally a spring goes boing.
-st-
At the front the hands travel over the face,
Their shadows, from which knowledge is formed, leave but a faint trace.
It is not unreadable.
-st-
His Lordship sits in front of the case,
his eyes never leaving the smooth ivory face,
taking note of what it tells of all the cogs down inside,
the ones the face of diplomacy never fails to hide,
patiently waiting.
-st-
When it needs it he'll wind the clock up again.
FINI.