The Watchmaker (Poem)

A worn-out doublet, a hat, a bag on my shoulder... My wealth is quite modest, not one to behold. The hours, years, centuries - they matter not to me, And how old I am, I can no longer recall.

I don't age from day to day, All around me despise and hate. It is sad, I do agree.  "The Watchmaker" they nicknamed me!

Clocks of any make I can fix with ease, Just one word and they're ticking with no resistance. But more often, alas, I'm forced to freeze The mechanism that you call existence.

Each night here or there I creep Into your room while you're asleep To the whispers of breath in the dark I approach the clock on the wall high...

Grasping the pendulum in my palm I watch as the hands come to a halt The sleeper smiles blissfully His breath ceases, and opening my notebook I write: "This night his clock has stopped its time"

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