A clockwork world, a clockwork world of weighted gears, a subtle term to track the years,
As measured by one hand alone, its gate meanders to a tone.
I peer through patterns in my walls, at wondrous things I see them all.
This world, the gears they churn away, its miracles laid out in clay.
A lonesome glimpse is all it takes to grasp its ripples and its wakes,
Its singers and its songs to be, its poets and its poetry.
But singers sang, and songs were sung.
What will await a string too strong?
An overwhelming sanctity, the clockmaster, causality.
Thus certainty, its maiden name, prescribes the rules and sets the game.
As every agent's acts abound, by presents past and futures found.
The patterns still appear to me, but life has clouded what I see.
In time, I'll lose my confidence, a victim of experience.
