The hands of the expert move in delicate fashion
Like the wings of a swan across an icy pond
To him he just breaths, slow and drawn out
Concentration thicker than any steel
His hands cracked and chiseled
They fit perfectly into the workers setting
Like grease in a car shop
It wouldn't make sense to have it
Any other way

Glass hangs above his nose
Like birds upon the perch
Waiting and watching his every move
He doesn't smoke
His work acts as his drug
The toiling with the trinkets
Each part installed
Like a piece of him desperately
Needing to be put back into place

A slow tick dictates his life
Like the grandfather clock that chimes
His days are filled with time
But never is he satisfied with his work
Racing with the second hand
Vaulting over the minutes
Meticulously fiddling with the hours
The final gears are set in place
He winds the newborn with his hands
Pinched around its heart
And begins to beat so soft
So gentle
Tick Tick *Tick