Droning arms press upon the languish of numbers,

Doting upon the eternal,

Singing mi amor to the chained hour,

Arguing with a monolithic sun,

Suited in words, distinguished paper, fluttering with airs and pomp,

Shrivelled words drip like the dessert soil on flaming days, 

Flushed paper sags and betrays the ink,

And wind has its own opinions,

Solemn, playful and bold, none of which belong to a clock,

A clock is not solemn, but will expunge joy,

A clock is not playful, but will stick to a rhythm,

A clock is not bold, except in its defiance of time, in time

It winds and stresses, but forgets its place,

It is but a dressing, for wall or wrist or screen,

It is but a clock. 

I'm just going to let you sit with this one. No other descriptions needed.