The clocks are in serious discourse
no outbursts, just talk. They might be discussing politics
or the merits of a fine cigar
a persistent laughter chimes from their lobby
plugging an ear to a wall,
plunging through ochre stains and spirit stench,
They are men, not machines, preserved in waxed hair
Sepia toned strangers with a distinct magisterial smell
Heroes of a revolution of steroids and steel
Do they weep?
Do they ever weep?
No, they will not weep, they are men,
yes! counters of sheep
As pallbearers of society,
they simply cannot weep.
or the empire would crumble,
the taxes would rise
And the peasants would take over
A fashionable stoicism props up their fingers.
nothing has drooped, not even a whisker
purpose clings to their corners, tailored as black,
so perfectly fitted- restraining to slack
Red ties throttle any new-collared schemes
until they are muted and clinging to steam.
It is this frank-less style that preserves an imminent birth-right
the black hat and chain that steadies their way
They have become so little, yet they are bigger than spaceflight
Casting a long shadow over the future of days
But sanely so, they are just clocks,
pendulums and pulleys
that go tickety-tock
Even in death, they continue to ring
Oh, the perpetual motion of such tedious things