Once did a young man

Declare that the tragedy

Of the world was

Wrong, and that he would

Fix it. Did he believe in

Himself? Sometimes. But

Not often. He had

Imbibed and lived a creed in

Which to be crushed by

The machine was a

Victory, representing

The end to the war.

Eventually he

Became a doctor and found

Himself a clockwork.

Would he spend his life

And his substance to turn back

The hands for one more

Moment? He wasn’t

That good, to die in service

Of a lost cause. He

Was selfish enough

To want a purpose for his

Life and work, to write

His name in the stars,

To stop the clock forever.

No martyr would he

Be. He would not burn

On another’s pyre. He

Would steal the sun from

The sky and hide it

In his pocket, to peep at

When he was idle.