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Aug 2013
Fulcrum hidden,
Gold tumbling from inside.
Knowledge unfathomable,
To those who only hear.

His cries ring out,
Every year, every hour.
His ticking,
Perpetually, counting down the world.

Into many homes he has been,
He lurks from a corner.
Pleading with his captors.
To put his time to rest.

Plainly through the class,
You can see the old man's face.
Curios children and weary men,
All look at him the same.

Pendulum swinging,
To The pulse of the world.
Can the old man stand the test of time?
Or will his ticking slow?
First thing I have done in a long time, I feel like It is kind of rusty but I have to post it.
Sydney Rianne Bouldin
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