Heaven’s lathe will turn regardless, wheel
Of motion that crushes, contorts and confounds
Where all materials are bent, twisted by dreams
Held amongst dry leaves written upon in olden days,
A story told in high machinery and smithing of soul.
Shadows of memory gather, heavier than air
Far more deadly in every way, bar a lack,
Significance of the cosmic clock mechanisms
Beaten into every fibre of being, expectancy
Driving that motion turning, turning, incessantly.