A clock work heart

A clock work heart

A Clockwork Heart Is Still Breakable, You Know.

They said a heart of gears would never feel,

That steel would guard the chambers of the soul,

That ticking parts would never learn of sorrow.

So I wound the key each morning in the dark,

Listened close to every turning tooth of time,

Hoping the sound might quiet what I carried.

But grief is patient with its quiet hands,

It slips between the cogs without a sound,

And waits where even metal cannot hide.

I have felt the slow bend of unseen weight,

A pressure deep behind the counting gears,

Where memory knocks like rain upon glass.

People say, be strong, keep moving on,

As though a clock must never stop to ache,

As though the pulse of loss should not exist.

Yet every tick repeats a softer truth,

Even the strongest springs can strain and cry,

Even a wound machine can lose its rhythm.

And when the night grows wide and merciless,

My heart stutters somewhere in the dark,

A fragile thing pretending it is iron.

So if you hear it falter do not stare,

A clockwork heart is still breakable, you know,

And mine was never built to hide forever.

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