my clockwork's not quite working right, but it's too late to fix me
they can't see breaking from the outside, they only see I'm living.

Moments; twitches,
they told me I must be careful not to rip my stitches.
Not yet turned to rust inside---
I've been waiting for the moment---
to join the glorified
the few
the beautiful
the delicate souls who cry like mine
those so filled up with life they died;
too attached to the delicate sway of life to live
to connected to the pulse of earth to give and walk about on

two feet, called bipedal motion, supposedly coming about as our ancestors moved from arborreal terrain to grasslands, some millions of years ago...


Science disects the tangible, but we've yet to find diamonds in our eyes that might cut what we cannot hold.
And so we'll never understand our souls.
If it has no bones can it break?
can it shatter if you shake
it too hard, will it fall off of its shelf?
Is our soul collective, or only in the self.

it's clockwork, pure clockwork
we're wound up and allowed to wind down
out
understanding that gears might fracture
misfire
malfunction
give out
go backwards
then perhaps even forwards again
how tightly are you wound?
or lubricated, my friend?

could you use a helping hand? a smack to get you going
the question's not where
nor when
nor how
nor apparently even... whether our insides are showing.

Break me down like clockwork,
take me to a shop but
they'll only shake their heads and tell you
this models got no replacement parts
best throw it away
get a new one

but I can't.
This ticker's all I've got.
it can't go backwards sideways or in circles
but time
travels
and I'll work it until I drop