The Clockmakers Final Hour

An old man sits at his chair, making clocks

He tinkers and tinkers and never stops

The clocks refuse to tick

The clocks mock him, their hands too thick

The old man doesn’t remember why he began to make these clocks

He has no passion, no enthusiasm, but he keeps going

His body moving by itself, the clocks are all knowing

They keep him up at night, they hiss, and they call him names

Lousy, lazy, fool, worthless, clumsy, hopeless, and he has only himself to blame

They chant in unison, growing louder and meaner

They have quite a grim demeanor 

“Why build what you can’t even fix?”

“You fumble and fail, just playing with sticks!”

“Just quit while you can! You’re stuck in the mix!”

“Your gears are loose! Your mind is full of ticks!”

The old man argues back, denying their insults

Yet he feels their pulse

The clocks have hearts, the clocks are alive

And due to the old mans nature, they only thrive

He starts to believe their lies

And a piece inside of him dies

The old man grabs gasoline and a matchbox

And he burns every single one of the clocks

For the first night in years he slept peacefully

But he is woken up unbelievably 

For the clocks are back, and they are enraged

“You old fool! Did you think you could keep us caged?”

The old man sighs, “oh clocks, your’re right!”

“I’m sorry for setting you alight!”

The old man picks up a clock and tinkers with it’s gears

The clock spits in his face

“Unhand me you clumsy fool, you cannot fix me, you disgrace!”

“You really must learn your place!”

“Clockmaking is not the path for you!”

“We don’t even tick! And you know it’s true!”

The old man drops the clock, and it shatters into a thousand pieces

The rest of the clocks gasp in unison

“You mustn’t try to fix the unfixable!”

“Your existence is futile, and that is undeniable!” 

“You are our servant, and we are your master!” 

“Your entire career is a god damned disaster!”

The old man sits down and begins to sob

He knows they’re right, and he’s done a lousy job

He stares at the clocks, and surrenders to them

In his heart of hearts, he knows he will never make a clock again

Every time he closes his eyes he sees them, hears them

He becomes less of a person, and more like a machine

His own creation has broken him, worse than he’s ever been

He doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t eat, his heart feels the toll

He sees the clocks in his dreams, in his reflection, on his stroll

He gazes at his clock parts and no longer sees them as pieces of a broken clock

But fragments of himself, shattered and out of control

He drops his tools and sits on the floor, surrounded by the clocks, and gears

He can no longer focus on anything besides their words, and the years

The old man accepts his fate, becoming part of the machine he sought to escape

He laughs a bitter laugh, and realizes he was never in control

He’s just a cog in the machine, ticking away at his heart and soul

He picks up the gears, the tools, the weight of his shame

His trembling hands now mirror the clock's eternal game

With one final tick, he ends it all, no more time, no more pain.