it winds up slowly at first.
still the gears warm up,
things move faster, traveling down the dusty ways.
it makes its path thickly through the forests,
driving onward into the deep.

the gentle clang resounds again,
and it spins faster now as the path slows.
It doesn't stop, yet it arrives.
a theatre, candle lit and open to the night sky.
the blood red curtains remain untouched
by the hand of age that seems to haunt this place.

a show.
it appears to be impromptu from the shuffling,
flying here and there, wherever it need be.
the spotlight shines on the curtains,
quickly they withdraw to reveal--
nothing.

we flood the stage, the show goes on,
makeshift costumes from the trinkets and scraps
gathered in haste.
a cacophony of silence follows for a time,
the candles waste away and the curtains glide
back to where they belong.
no bow, no applause.

a gentle clang resounds in the distance.