Oh Old Mrs Clockwork,
Do those cogs still turn?
Sitting in your chair with a calming smile,
Dawn‘s softest light,
Rocking back and forth in soothing motion.
What were you in those young days?
Skin supple;
Quiet garden of mind,
Vibrant life behind glassy eyes.

Now past laughter lines your cheeks,
Grey and cold where roses once kissed most fondly.
Gears slow behind those wearily warm eyes—
Though the coming absence of the ticking leaves behind a comforting silence,
Peace.

Even with life past eleven,
Soon to strike twelve,
Never once had you left your grace behind.
Wound back to three,
Did you not run with bare feet and an eccentric wildness no man could tame?
Flourishing most brightly,
You lived,
Now you rest.

Perhaps you once sat in warmth,
Lovingly gazing in your mirror,
Admiring the beautiful figure the world had once paused to witness and adore;
Amaryllis blooming on your lips in swirls of pride and splendour?
Did your fingers—
Delicate and sweet—
Bear diamonds and gold that once wound your spirit tight?

Now all quiet—
Nestled in tender velvet.
Opened with joyous reverie—
Washing dull grey from once lively cheeks,
Retracing the lines of laughter in rose golden ink.
Oh how your hands,
Warmed by quiet love,
Still bring gentleness just as before—
Delivering the softest comfort.

Long ago had you been so young.
Never did beauty leave your growing soul,
Never did kindness drain from your ever giving heart.
When the last tick comes,
Should you rest in beds of roses and doves,
Sweet scents and gentle memories.

Oh Old Mrs Clockwork,
Eleven to live,
Twelve to pass,
One to hear the ticking anew,
Reborn in petals and perfume,
Where time should never chase you again.