Standing in the shadows is a lonely clock that's painted red Made from blood and carved from bone - a clockwork core that's cold like lead. A convoluted clockmaker sits wizened by its feet He sits and thinks, nods and knows, the clock will not its maker meet. He tells himself he's but an ember, tells his clock it will tick on Wrapped in black like black's in fashion, with no heart save pendulum. He knows the clock is icy fire, if he, the maker, is its spark He looks upon his ticking beast and knows his hand has made its mark. He lets his clock keep ticking, never stopping, won't tell why, And its maker curls up on the floor; his final breaths are whimsic sighs. His lonely clock keeps ticking, ticking, ticking - ticking, ticking still, Standing regal in the shadowed room, but bending to its maker's will.