They're the one that everyone sees as the light,
the one who clears out the darkness
their gentle hands masterfully working
between the twisted gears and wires
But so much time does the mechanic spend
polishing gears and rekindling hope
that those blind eyes pass over, glazed with the false belief
that the mechanic's own fire is still burning strong
Each clock they fix, each machine they clean, enigmas within the mind
they give their own light and their flames die slowly
no longer holding hope for themselves
Still, they gather the pieces around them, shattered, broken, bent and twisted
tweaking and twisting till everything's perfect,
because their work keeps the embers alive, barely aglow
amongst the broken parts within them
It is the last hope they have left